


You With Me

by Humanities_Handbag, Invader_Sam



Category: Casper (1995)
Genre: All aboard the train to sadness town, Angst with a Happy Ending, Casper crosses over, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, characters have a choice, choo choo, family learning how to be a family again, they gon' learn today, to follow his memories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 172,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27340162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanities_Handbag/pseuds/Humanities_Handbag, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Invader_Sam/pseuds/Invader_Sam
Summary: Before the arrival of the Harvey’s, Casper had been mostly content with the lack of memories. The ever present knowledge that he’d had a life before this, but it mattered little beyond its existence. He was a ghost. His name was Casper. He lived with his Uncles in Whipstaff. He spent his days wandering the halls when he wasn’t working tirelessly for them or trying his hardest to stay out of their way. Wash. Rinse Repeat.But memories were the same as chocolate. You could live your life without it happily.Until someone gave you a taste.Cross over,the memory of his father calls.If you just cross over, you'll remember. Me. You. Everything.He extended a hand.You with me?And without looking back (at Whipstaff, at Friendship, at the Uncle's who wouldn't care), Casper followed.Or:A young girl digs up memories. A friendly ghost falls away to follow them. And three Uncles remember what they may have lost after it's already gone.(rated T for language)
Comments: 268
Kudos: 132





	1. The First and the Last

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: 
> 
> Kat begins to find memories.
> 
> Casper begins to remember. 
> 
> Stretch begins to suspect. 
> 
> And the other side begins to call out - _When you're ready to come back to me, I'll be waiting._

The remembering began slowly. 

Before the arrival of the Harvey’s, Casper had been mostly content with the lack of memories. The ever present knowledge that he’d had a life before this, but it mattered little beyond its existence. He was a ghost. His name was Casper. He lived with his Uncles in Whipstaff. He spent his days wandering the halls when he wasn’t working tirelessly for them or trying his hardest to stay out of their way. Wash. Rinse Repeat. 

But memories were the same as chocolate. You could live your life without it happily. 

Until someone gave you a taste. 

Kat’s arrival to the house a year ago had started a slow, ever growing chain reaction. The play room had been first. Then the articles. The sled. And after halloween had come and gone, and the two humans had decided to stay, Kat had made it her job to continue the journey any way she could. 

On an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday in November, she’d found the bike. 

Shoved in the corner of the attic, it was an old, dark red bicycle, rife with dust and cobwebs. It had been leaning against the pillar, hidden under a few layers of tarp.

“This must have been yours!” She’d dragged Casper up after she’d found him vacuuming the hallway outside of his uncles’ room. 

There’d been a little manilla folder of pictures she’d found later. Found a picture of little Casper standing to the side of the bike. He’d taken the picture from her, holding it like the most precious object in the world. 

The dream happened that night. 

_He was in pain. His right arm was a mess of gravel, raw skin, and blood. He cradled it, fought back tears, and pushed the front door open._

_Oil lamps bathed the foyer in warm light. Sounds from the kitchen meant supper would be ready soon. Familiarity surrounded him. Soothed him._

_He moved with purpose. There was only one place to go when he was hurt._

_The doors to the study were open just enough for him to wedge himself through._

_Behind a desk, his father spoke on the phone._

_Looked up._

_Spotted him._

_Placed the phone in the receiver._

_“Oh, gracious, Casper. What have you done to your arm?”_

_In the hazy way that dreams work, he blinked and was sitting in his father’s lap. His wound was cleaned and bandaged with strong, gentle hands. He leaned in closer. Breathed in tobacco, whiskey and leather._

_“I’m never going to learn to ride it properly,” he heard himself say._

_“Nonsense.” The arm around his shoulders squeezed. “Tomorrow you and I will give it another try - together.” A large hand presented itself to him. “What do you say? You with me?”_

_His chest swelled. Raised his hand. Opened his mouth._

He’d wanted to answer. So badly, he’d wanted to answer.

And awoke.

 _You with me?_ The voice had asked. 

The next night was much the same. 

A bike crash. 

A father's office. 

A hand larger, woven through his. 

The smell of cologne, tobacco, whiskey, leather. 

And it ended, just like it always did, before he could respond. He woke up grinning, arm aching, and the echo of a voice around him. Watching the pastel clouds cresting through his windows. 

He blinked at the clock. 6:03 am. 

Always 6:03. 

His Uncles wouldn’t be awake for another hour and a half, at least. And they’d no doubt be demanding breakfast. They’d been healthier since the arrival of the humans (something about the Fleshies stealing sweets - may as well have what they’re having), but cooking entire meals on demand still took time. 

“Anything new today?” Kat whispered, coming down a little after 7. The empty kitchen, gold in dawn's light, was a peaceful place for at least an hour, and it was a moment of respite in what would be a chaotic day. There were eggs on the stove. The smell of bacon and sausage and pancakes had flooded down the halls. 

“Same dream.” 

“Huh...guess I’ll just have to keep digging.” She scanned the kitchen cupboards, pushed her dad’s boring box of bran aside and pulled down the Frosted Cheerios (wondering idly how poorly sales of regular Cheerios were doing now that it’s vastly-superior cousin had hit the market). “Seems like the big stuff is really good for jogging memories loose.” She grabbed a bowl and then set it and the box down on the table. "Wonder how much else this house is hiding?”

“There’s hiding spots all over this place,” Casper said, loading eggs onto the plate. Kat took them, putting them into the center of the table. “You’ve found more than me, though.”

“And we’ll find more _together_. Maybe after school-”

“I’ve got loads to do today.” The bacon went onto a plate next. “An entire second floor to scrub.”

“Didn’t they used to yell at you for cleaning? Do they just change it up each season to keep things interesting?” She crossed to the fridge and yanked the door open, grabbed the milk carton, and shut it with a significant amount of force. 

“Something about having humans here, or- I don’t know. Dr. Harvey's been on them about clean space, clean minds."

“Well, couldn’t you just… _not_?”

Casper gave her a look, and she held up her hands. “Fine. But still. I think it wouldn’t hurt to leave something for them at some point.”

“Kat.”

“ _Casper_.” 

He rolled his eyes, going back to the stove. “You know it doesn’t work like that around here.”

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but swallowed it back. “Whatever. But we’ll find time soon. If you’re remembering this much already?” She shrugged, dropping a spoon into her bowl. “Think about what one more picture could do.” 

He was given one brief moment to think about the prospect (a bike - a fall - a father - words he could one day return) before it was broken by the sounds of new voices clamoring down the halls. 

“Cas- _per_!” They were at the table before either child could blink, filling their plates. “There a reason the coffee ain’t started?”

Casper gave Kat a harrowing look. “Sorry, Uncle Stretch.”

“Hup two, Short Sheet.”

Dr. Harvey came through next, newspaper in hand. “I’ll start it,” he whispered as he passed them. “Looks like you need a break.” 

The boy let go of a long-held breath, nodding. He was able to sneak out just as Harvey, from behind, asked, “How many sugars, boys?” 

* * *

A single memory, it turned out, was as addictive as he thought it might be.

The dreams were looping and endless, and he found himself thinking about them while he worked, a buzz beginning just behind his eyes whenever his mind strayed to bikes and kind eyes and a voice, and he wanted more. Needed more. _Craved_ more. 

And then they’d found the photo album. 

It was a rainy Saturday. The trio were in an especially foul mood because Dr. Harvey penciled them in for a session, and they’d apparently decided that if they were miserable, then everyone had to be. And so Casper hadn’t been awake ten minutes before Stretch had floated his way and _demanded_ the library be reorganized. 

Kat, ever the trooper, had volunteered her help. 

And so the two of them had wound up elbow deep in library dust by 10 am. 

“I still don’t see why they couldn’t do this, if they were so desperate.” Kat grumbled. She dropped a stack of Shakespeare on her father’s desk. “It’s not like they have anything better to do.”

He sighed, squinting at a shelf of faded Encyclopedias. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m _used_ to Global Warming. Doesn’t make it good.” 

He snorted behind her, floating up to another higher shelf.

“At least I have help this time. You should have seen before you got here. They’d have me organizing this place alphabetically one week, and then change their minds and want it by color a week later.” He flipped through one of the books. “Do you have a pen over there? I want to mark this one.” 

Kat swallowed back a searing comment and opened one of her father's drawers, searching around in his papers. “Yeah, hold on. My dad usually has one or two.” 

The first drawer yielded nothing. The second drawer was filled with a few files, all marked with the ghost’s names, and she made a mental note to check it out later. 

Kneeling down, she opened one of the bottom drawers. It stuck, and she gave it a harder tug, listening to something hit the walls from the inside. Frowning, Kat twisted her hand tighter around the knob. “Come on,” she grumbled, giving it one last _tug_. 

The drawer finally opened with a horrible _squeal_. She peered inside-

“Oh!”

Casper twisted around, book in hand. “Kat?”

“You _have_ to see this!” 

By the time he’d floated over, she was already dusting off the front of an old, leather bound book. 

_McFadden_ was pressed in gold lettering on the front. “Did you know this was here?”

He shook his head, moving to hover behind her shoulder as she flipped it open. 

“Oh- oh _wow_ … Casper. That’s-”

His voice barely a whisper, Casper reached out and touched the image. “My dad.” 

J.T. McFadden stared back at the two children, eyes steely and cool under the faded sepia. 

“You sure you didn’t know about this?” She flipped to the next page. J.T. McFadden standing beside one of his earlier inventions. His face was just as steely and serious as before. Around his neck was a FIRST PLACE ribbon. 

“So sure,” Casper breathed, turning the page again, looking at a picture of his father standing at the ocean in a striped bathing costume. “There aren’t a lot of pictures of him around here anymore. I didn't even know we _had_ photo albums.” 

By the time the sun had set, Casper and Kat had barely touched the rest of the library, and instead had hid themselves behind her father’s desk, flipping through pictures. 

"So… is this, like, sparking anything?" She asked.

He shook his head. "I know his face but… none of them are with me. These must’ve been taken before I was born.” He closed his eyes, concentrating. “No, nothing new. Sorry, Kat.”

"Don't worry!" Kat must have seen the growing distress on his face, because she snapped the book closed and grabbed his hands. "If this was lying around in a drawer somewhere, then that means there have to be more." She grinned. "We can start looking this week after school."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously! It'll be like our mission."

He perked up, floating a little higher above the ground. "Operation: Memory Recovery."

"Yes!"

He brightened, then looked around them at the scattered books on the desk, the chairs, the floor. "Won't be much of me to recover if they see this, though."

Kat snorted. "Come on. Let's just put them wherever. It's not like they'll actually bother to check."

The two of them stacked books on any shelf they could find until Dr. Harvey called them for dinner. 

* * *

“So, what did you two get up to today?” James asked as he doled out platefuls of lasagna (frozen and reheated, but they never complained - he insisted that dinner was his job and Casper was more than happy to relinquish the duty).

“Chores mostly,” the ghost answered.

Across the table, Stretch yanked the cork from a bottle of wine with his teeth. “Good.” He set it down at his own place, frowned but didn’t fight it when Fatso grabbed it to help himself. “Gotta keep the rugrats busy, right, Doc? Keep ‘em outta trouble.”

Harvey chuckled as he took his seat. “I was always of the mindset that kids could benefit from a little boredom.”

“I can attest to that,” Kat said, picking up her fork.

Her father ruffled her hair. 

“Nope, nuh-uh.” Stretch shook his head, tried to take the wine bottle back from Fatso only to have it passed down the table to Stinkie. “Bored brats are a recipe for disaster.”

Into his plate, Casper mumbled, “Technically chores are boring.”

“What was that?” his uncle snapped.

“Nothing.”

Kat gave her best friend a wink. “Actually, Stretch, we weren’t bored at all this afternoon cleaning in the library.” Casper straightened up, shaking his head at her, but her eyes were across the table. “We found a photo album.” When she didn’t get a reaction (Stretch had succeeded in snatching the bottle back and was raising it to his lips), she added, “A _McFadden_ Family photo album.”

The trio’s leader froze, and she watched the wine catch halfway down his translucent throat. With poorly-hidden effort, he forced it the rest of the way down, stifled a cough as the liquid splashed against the tile floor. When he brought his eyes back to her, she was surprised at the chill that ran down her spine. “Yeah, and…?”

Beside him, Fatso paused mid-bite, turned a curious glance in the girl’s direction. “Really?”

“Where?” Stinkie asked.

“Hidden in a drawer in Dad’s desk.” She took a bite of her pasta, spoke around it. “Kinda sketchy, right? I mean, who hides pictures of their family?”

“Who cares?” Stretch shrugged. On either side of him, his brothers exchanged a look around him. “What’re you two doing pokin’ around anyway when you were supposed to be rearrangin’?”

Casper started to stammer out an explanation, but Kat responded instead. “I was looking for a pen. But so what? Isn’t the more important question why it was hidden?”

“Kat…” Casper gripped his fork tightly.

“No really, think about it.” The teen took a quick sip of her water. “Stuff like that - the tangible stuff - is what helped Casper remember the Lazarus, which if he hadn’t - Dad, you’d still be a ghost.”

Dr. Harvey gave a conciliatory nod. “That’s true.”

Stretch folded his arms. “As if that’d be such a tragedy.”

Kat gawked, but her father put up a hand. “Let’s not go there. What was in the photo album, sweetheart?”

“Mostly pictures of JT.”

“Who?”

Casper put his chin in one hand, elbow on the table, the tiniest hint of a wistful smile on his face. “My dad.”

Kat turned back to the trio. “He was your brother...right?”

Fatso looked at Stinkie. “Was he?”

“Must’a been.”

“You mean you don’t remember?” The living teen leaned forward, folded her arms on her placemat. “Like, at all?”

“Course we don’t,” Stretch said, stabbing his food with much more force than necessary. “Why would we?”

“But he was your _brother._ ”

“And?” He took a bite, chewed angrily. “Bulbhead’s our nephew, but we don’t remember a thing about him.”

Kat’s eyes widened, turned towards her best friend, who had taken to staring at the table, hard. “You don’t?”

“S’how it works, skin-sack.”

She wanted to press more, but another look around the room told her it wasn’t going to get her anywhere. So she let the conversation drop and the awkwardness fill the room until her father got up to turn on the radio.

* * *

Kat had decided that the discussions about Memories were too important to put on hold, and so it wasn’t five minutes after she helped Casper put dishes away from dinner that she was dragging him back to her room. 

“I don’t get _why_ we have to do this,” he told her, sitting on the bed while she rifled through the small pile of treasures she’d found. “I’m fine where I am. And it’s not worth it. Memories are _hard_ when you’re dead.”

 _Has to be fine_ , the little voice in his head piped up. _Be okay with one. Be fine with one. Has to be fine. Has to be fine_. 

_Just be content with this_ , he told himself this, over and over, fighting the anxious rise in his head, spinning like the wheels on that bike, threatening to crash just as hard. _This is fine. This is good. This is all you need. Any more and it’ll be dangerous_ . Dreaming about bikes was enough. Had to be enough. The humans being in the house had already disrupted the way of things enough and he wasn’t sure _what_ Stretch would do if he kept retreating away. 

He’d already been caught more than once. 

A slip, that’s all it was. A tumble. A crash. 

His mind craving those memories, the buzz ringing behind his eyes, he’d accidentally forgotten about breakfast. Huddled on his bed with the photo in his hands, tracing his thumb along the little sepia track-marks, he’d fallen away in the voice that rang so clear every night. 

_You with me_

_You with me_

_You with-_

“What the hell!”

The photo had dropped off the bed, fluttering beneath just as his Uncle Stretch had found him. He hadn’t heard him come into the room, and before he could blink they were face to face. Violet eyes locked on his as a hand gripped his collar. “You forget about something, _bulbhead_?”

“Uh-”

“Christ - _Breakfast,_ Casper.” The eldest specter snarled. 

“... uh.”

His Uncle’s glare could have melted him. He looked around the room. “There something I should know about, Casper?” 

Casper swallowed. Had kept his eyes forward. Tried not to draw attention to the single picture that had fluttered away. 

It had worked. 

Eventually, Stretch had let him go. “You’ve been off lately. Forgetin’. Slackin’.” He squinted. “Forgetting who your family is?”

“ _No_ ,” he’d breathed. His fists had trembled. Waiting. Watching. 

His Uncle had floated closer. Casper floating back. “If I were you,” Stretch had said, all iron and salt, “I wouldn’t let those fleshies get too much into your head. You had a place before they got here. I’d rather you didn’t _slip_ from it. Capiche?” 

Casper nodded. Avoided looking at the picture of his father beneath the bed. 

His Uncle had watched him a moment more. Eventually, figuring he’d made a point, he’d snarled a threat and booted the ghost out. Casper had quickly left for the kitchens. 

The fear of how fragile these new memories were did not escape him. 

_Just be content_ , he’d kept saying. _Just be content, just be content, just be content_. 

Here, on this bed now, it was hard to listen to the voice. Not when the buzz behind his eyes was throbbing and Kat’s fingers were dancing across the sepia. 

“Oh come _on_ . Don’t let Stretch get in your head. This is _working._ ” She held up a photograph of three people. It was old. The family stood in the foyer, in front of an opulent Christmas tree so large the top was out of frame. The woman - his mother - knelt beside a toddler - Casper - while the man - his father - stood behind them, a hand on her shoulder. None of them were smiling, but their eyes were warm. In the foreground, adorned with a big bow, was his sled. “Casper… if you’ve been having dreams about them… that could be _huge_. And these- these could help!”

He swallowed, inching closer. 

The telltale buzz was beginning behind his eyes. It was all he could do not to snatch the photograph from her hands. “Well…” 

She flipped it over, reading the faded, handwritten note. “Casper, Emily, and Josiah Thomas. Christmas Eve, 1884.” She put the photo down on her bedspread, sliding it towards him. He picked it up with careful hands, holding it on his palm. Gently, he traced the contour of their faces. 

A familiar feeling clutched at his chest. 

He ran his thumb across the face of the child looking at the camera. Across _his_ face. 

_Just be content_ , the little voice in his head screamed. 

_You with me?_ soothed the siren song from behind the grain. 

The voice on the edge of his memory snapped away as Kat dropped another photo down in front of him. “Look! What about this one?”

They’d barely gotten through another two before the door was blown open, hitting the wall with a **_bang_ ** , violently swinging back on its hinges. Kat let out a _squeak_ and nearly fell off the bed, clinging to the headboard. “Hey! Short Sheet!”

Casper stuffed the photo he was holding under Kat’s pillow. “Hey, Uncle Stretch! You… do you need something?” 

Stretch floated in the doorway, arms crossed. “The hell you think you’re doing, Bulb Head?”

“Uh-”

“You’ve got a list of chores from here to Timbuktu.” He gestured with a thumb. “Let’s go. We ain’t got all day here.” 

Kat, gathering enough of her senses again to crawl back onto her bed, glared at Stretch from the footboard. “What’s your problem? He’s just hanging out-”

Stretch shot her a look that she returned with equal ire. “Stay out of family business, Fleshie. Casper - let’s _go_.” 

Kat was about to hurl back another scathing comment, but Casper was already up and floating, giving her a desperate look — _please, please, please don’t get involved_ — and she snapped her mouth shut with a glare. 

“Don’t got all afterlife here, Short Sheet!”

“Right, yeah. Course.” The younger ghost floated past quickly, turning only to say, “be back soon,” before ducking down the hall. 

Stretch sent one last leer Kat’s direction before the door swung closed again. 

She glared at the door another moment, before finally giving up with a huff. Well, she thought, closing the box, it was good while it lasted. 

Casper did eventually return an hour later with tales of dusting and floor shining and promises of _it wasn’t that bad, Kat, it’s not like they asked me to paint the house… yet_ , and talked her down from bringing what would have probably been a third World War to his Uncles’ bedroom door. 

Box of memories forgotten beneath her bed and a heap of homework to do, she let it go. 

Still.

“Why do you let them do that?” Kat asked, not looking up from the tattered copy of _The Giver_ that she was supposed to be finishing for Miss LaMott’s English class.

Floating at the end of the bed, flipping boredly through a back issue of Ghost Rider, Casper also kept his eyes on the page as he replied, “Do what?”

The living girl turned her page slowly. “You know… like, be such colossal dicks all the time.”

He looked up at that. “Kat!”

She laid her book on her lap, fixing him with a hard stare. “You know they do. You do _everything_ around here. And for what? They never even say thank you.”

He shrugged, turning back to his comic. “That’s just how they are. How they’ve always been.”

“Seriously?”

“For as long as I can remember.”

“Which is only the time you’ve all been ghosts.”

“Yeah.”

Kat picked at the frayed knee of her jeans. “It’s so weird that there’s, like, nothing around here that would remind you of _them_. Like, they’re nowhere in that photo album.” She raised her head up sharply, dark hair swaying like curtains against her cheek. “What if they’re not even your uncles? What if they’re just, like, some dillweeds who decided your house was a good place to haunt?”

He gaped at her. “What? No! That’s...no. No.” He furrowed his brow, drawing what used to be his knees up to his chest. “They’re my uncles.”

“How can you be sure?” Kat pressed.

“I can...I can feel it,” he said, squeezing his knees.

The teen girl watched him for a moment, scrutinizing, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes, so she moved back to her pillows and her homework. “If you say so.”

The two sat in silence for a few moments, and then the teen put her book down again. “Hey - can I show you something?”

“I don’t wanna look at any more photos, Kat.”

“Not that, hang on.” She twisted, leaning over to open her bedside drawer, extracting a black leather book sealed shut with a combination lock. “I kind of have my own memory project too.”

He sat up. “What do you mean?”

She set the book in her lap, fiddling with the lock. “So remember last year’s Halloween party?”

“Kinda hard to forget.” He traced the patterns in her quilt with a finger.

“Yeah, well, you and Dad both got to talk to my mom, and I didn’t. And I was...I was kinda pissed about that.” He opened his mouth, but she kept talking. “Not at you guys. At her, kind of. Like, why didn’t she talk to _me?_ Right? But just sitting around being pissed didn’t make me feel any better, so I talked to Dad.” She spun the numbers on the lock, cracked open the book. “He said I should tell her. So I did.”

She held out the open book for him to read.

“‘Dear Mom’?” Casper read aloud.

“Never been into, like, praying, or whatever, but this...this helped. I wrote down _everything_ I wanted to say to her.”

The ghost’s eyes scanned the page, widened. “Geez...you really didn’t hold back.”

“Yeah well, I was _pissed_.” She snapped the book closed and pulled it back into her lap. “The day after I wrote that, I felt super bad about it, so I wrote another one. And another one, and another…” She flipped quickly through the pages with her thumb. “Now it’s more like a diary, but it’s good. It feels like...like she’s not so far away, you know?”

“You think she reads it?”

Kat shrugged, closed the lock and replaced the book in her drawer. “I dunno. Maybe? Even if she doesn’t though, I like doing it. I know it’s not as, you know, _ground-breaking_ as what you’re trying to do, but whatever.” She shook her head. “All I’m saying is you're not alone in _this_.”

“This…”

“This whole memory debacle. We’re sort of doing it together, if you want to think about it that way. Because I get it. It can get overwhelming. But if you’re doing it with a partner…” She shrugged. “Does that make sense?”

“I think so.”

She shrugged again, pushing her hair behind her ear. “You have me. I think that’s what I really mean. When the going gets tough. Etcetera etcetera.” 

He flew over to sit beside her. “I think it’s great, Kat. Thanks for showing me.”

“Sure.” She bumped against him, and then picked up _The Giver_ again as he let himself float up towards the ceiling. They spent the rest of the evening in silence until Dr. Harvey came to say good night.

* * *

The dream was becoming more familiar. Crisper. Clearer.

There was pain. 

A bike. 

A run up the hill towards a house. 

There were stairs, and halls, and doors, and a man waiting with open arms. 

"You with me?” The man asked, watching him with sepia eyes. There was so much love. So much warmth. So, so, so much that Casper wanted to fall away into it and drown. "Come on, Casper," the man asked again. "You're with me, aren't you?"

 _I_ am, Casper wanted to scream. _I'm with you. I'm with you!_

But he couldn't. His voice was stuck and hidden away. He reached and reached and reached, but he couldn't seem to grasp the man's hand. _Please_ , he tried to shout. _Please let me remember. Please come back. Please stay._

There was laughter from behind him. His Uncles howls and cackles. Violet eyes glaring. A hand tugging him back, away from the kind sepia. 

_Remember your_ place, someone snarled. 

_Just be content_ , the voice in his head shrieked. 

His father watched on. Watched him fall farther and farther away. "When you're ready to remember," he said, smiling with his kind, sepia eyes, "When you're ready to come back to me, I'll be waiting."

He woke up with a hand extended, eyes wet, and the taste of salt on his tongue. 

" _I'm with you_ ," he choked, just as the clock ticked to 6:03. 

* * *

The memories had been stacking up. Casper was holding onto them. Salivating over them. Longing for them. 

_Avoiding_ them. 

And the Trio was watching. 

“We’ve got to be careful,” Kat said after their last session. They were avoiding chores again, sitting in her father’s room. The three specters didn’t dare come in. Something about _not wanting to know how the sausage is made, Doc_ , so they’d get some privacy for a little while. 

She laid out more of the pictures like playing cards. 

Casper’s father in front of the house. 

Casper’s father next to his mother. 

Casper’s father in front of a train, shaking hands with a mustachioed man.

His favorite; Casper’s father beside his mother, a baby on her lap. 

He held up one of the pictures, staring down at the eyes of his father, his mother, tracing the shape of his own face. “We _have_ to be careful,” he agreed. 

Especially now that he’d begun dreaming about the people in those pictures. 

A new one, from the night before, had left him startled and quiet and desperately longing for more. _Afraid_ of more. 

A hand held out. Wide, long fingers splayed and waiting, as if to catch him. 

A voice; _you with me?_

And he’d wanted to scream back, _I’m with you_ . But he couldn’t do more than sit there, staring at the hand, wanting to grab it. _I’m with you!_

So it only made sense that he was desperate for more memories. 

But the more memories he took in, the more time he spent with Kat, huddled under a desk or a bed or in a closet, pouring over sepia. And the more time he did that, the less time he spent remembering that the Trio of ghosts in the house was there. Which he’d done again that morning, after he’d forgotten another breakfast and ended up chewed out by his Uncles Fatso and Stinkie in the hallway, tossed through the floorboards to the basement.

He could handle them though. Some excuses. Extra donuts. A quick flight away and a recommended new TV show. 

But Stretch...

Stretch had always been the Uncle he'd needed to watch out for. Calculated. Quick. Vicious. He'd always ruled over the house with a sort of manic ease, and Casper was always left breathless from an attack. But ever since the memories.- since he'd begun forgetting in place of _remembering_... 

... Casper had noticed it. His eldest Uncle's quiet, suspecting gaze. Violet eyes fixed on his nephew. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

Staring.

(knowing)

And Casper was beginning to feel more and more like a swimmer diving for gold as a shark circled in the water.

 _Just be content_ , hissed the voice in his head. A warning. A promise, waiting to be. He swallowed, fists tight in his lap. 

_Just be content._

_Just be content._

_Remember your place._

_Just be content._

And sepia eyes, an outstretched hand, a smaller, larger voice; _When you're ready to come back to me, I'll be waiting._

“We can’t just keep these around.” He pushed them towards Kat, casting a nervous glance towards the bedroom door. "If he finds them-" 

“I’ll keep them safe,” Kat promised. “I’ve got a box under my bed for _TigerBeat_ s. I _know_ they won’t touch that. I’ll put everything in there.”

“I don’t know…”

She reached out, put a hand on his knee. “Relax, Casper. It’s gonna be fine.”

.

.

.

It wasn’t fine for long.


	2. Finding and Losing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which rooms are found, pictures are held, initials are etched, and a fireplace is lit.

It had been almost a month since Kat had found the bike, three weeks since the photo album. The hunt was addicting. Operation: Memory Recovery was as incredible as it was risky. While Casper did chores, she scoured the house. Peeked behind every picture frame. Moved furniture. Opened extra-thick books, expecting them to be hollowed out and filled with treasure. _History_ treasure.

And though some days the only thing she got for her efforts was cobwebs in her hair, other days were far more lucrative. She was driven, focussed. So much so, she never noticed, as she pried open locked drawers and lifted loose floorboards, that violet eyes were watching her.

The box under her bed was full. She was dying to unload the whole thing, but Casper seemed overwhelmed when she’d hefted the heavy cardboard up onto the bed, so she changed tactics. Pulled out just a handful of new things each time they sat down together.

That is, when they _could_ sit down together.

It was becoming more frequent, and frustratingly so, that each time the two of them settled in after dinner, that one or more of the Trio suddenly discovered a task in the house that needed to be done _immediately_. 

And Kat’s anger, something she usually allowed to pour out in defense of her friend, had been silenced by his pleads. 

“Stretch is getting antsy,” Casper told her one night, whispering and glancing towards the door. _He knows I’m slacking off._

“You shouldn’t be doing all of it anyway! Maybe, if we both stood up to them-”

“They’d fight back twice as hard,” Casper told her. “Trust me, Kat. I know them. Just… keep your cool for right now. Let me do this my way. Just for a little while. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to placate them, and it won’t be the last.”

So she’d grit her teeth and agreed. 

It didn’t mean, however, that her Mother wouldn’t hear about it. 

Her little journal in her bedside table had seen more action than it had in a while, and she was considering asking her dad for an advance on allowance just to get a new one. 

_Dear Mom_ , she began on one of the nights Casper was being forced to scrub out the basement and prep for breakfast early. _It’s been a few days! Still angry at you. Still working through it. Dad says that it’s healthy or whatever._

She took a deep breath and considered going back and erasing the first part. Most of her letters began like that. I’m angry. I’m furious. How could you. Why didn’t you. It wasn’t like the anger did her much good.

Then again, if her mother _was_ taking the occasional peek, then she sure as hell wanted the woman to know exactly how she felt. 

She continued with fresh gusto. _Anyway, I have something new to get off my chest. I know you know Casper. I’ve talked about him in here before. And you met him. You turned him into a human for all of three hours. Remember that?_

She refrained from adding the part where her mother had forgotten to drop by and visit her. There were other things to be angrier about. Looking around at her room, sitting on her own, knowing that a few floors below was a little ghost laboring away for nothing more than a few scowls and more orders. Fresh anger bubbled. 

_Mom_ , she began again, _how come you gave Casper a few hours as a human for my halloween party, but didn’t just help him out with his three Uncles instead? You probably know them, too. Mom. They’re terrible. They hate him. Absolutely hate him. You know how much better he’d be if he could just_ get away _? Or if I could just find the world's largest vacuum and-_

She tapped her pen on the paper. Crossed off the last line. She didn’t want to stoop. As good as it felt to imagine them being plunged away through a black hole. 

_We found some pictures the other day. His parents. His mom and his dad. And Mom. He’s remembering. And it’s depressing. And awful. And sucky as all hell. Because things were better with them. And it gets worse and worse every time those three assholes come around and torment him. He misses his parents so much. I just wish-_

A knock on the door had her shutting the book. “Yeah?”

James poked his head inside. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Nah.” She slipped the diary under her pillow and sat up. “What’s up?”

“Just thought I’d touch base before I head to bed.” He stepped into the room, peered around. “By yourself tonight?”

She nodded, brushing her hair behind her ears. “Kinda becoming the new normal.”

“You don’t sound too happy about that.”

“Gee, really?” She squinted at him. “I was trying so hard to hide it.”

He chuckled, seated himself at the end of the bed. “You talking to Mom about it?” He nodded towards her pillow.

“Maybe.” She drew her knees up to her chest.

“Good, good. That’s good.” He paused, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Any chance you want to talk to me about it?”

“Any chance you can get Stretch and the others to take a gallons worth of chill pills?”

“They’re really getting under your skin lately, huh?”

“Dad.” Kat lowered her knees so she could sit up straighter. “They’re being _monumentally_ uncool. All we want to do is look at a handful of pictures, and they can’t stop being just, just _giant_ pricks!”

“Kathleen…” Harvey chided.

“Sorry, but they _are!_ ” She waved a hand at her nightstand, at the framed photo of Amelia. “Can you imagine ever telling me not to look at Mom’s picture?”

“Well, no, but-”

“So why-”

He put a hand over hers, quieting her. “Change is hard, honey. For everyone, but _especially_ for people who haven’t had to deal with it in almost a hundred years.”

“You’re _defending_ them,” Kat said, pulling her hand away. 

“Honey-”

“Why does there have to be an _explanation_. Why can’t they just be three assholes who like to torture some kid who may or may not be their nephew.”

“Well. For one thing- he is their nephew. They know _that_.”

She rolled her eyes, looking away. 

“And,” he began slowly, ducking his head to catch her eyes, “you can’t know the _whole_ story.”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m just saying. There are things here affecting them, too.”

“So that means they can treat Casper however they want?”

“No,” he said, patiently. “And believe me, honey. If I could change one thing about all this, it would be that. But Casper held his own for years. He’ll be alright for a little while, while the guys are dealing with whatever it is they’re going through.” 

Kat scoffed against her knees, breath warming her skin. “They aren’t trying to remember their parents. Or deal with three _jerks_ who won’t let them.” 

Her father took off his glasses, and ran a hand through his hair. Then he drew in a deep breath and let it out. “You know,” he said slowly, fiddling with his glasses in his hands, “that I can’t break client confidentiality.”

His tone was soft. Careful. And it drew her out of the somber huddle she’d tucked herself into, glancing up towards her father. 

“And you know…” he continued, just as carefully, “that I can’t give you _loads_ of information. And that my job is to take both sides here. Right?”

She nodded, legs unfurling. 

“The photographs you found, of Casper’s father? The ones you brought up at dinner?”

“We found them in the library,” Kat said. “They’d been hidden.”

“Yeah. Well. Ever since you mentioned them the Trio - well, Stretch, really - have been a little… off.” 

“They’re always a little _off_ , Dad.”

“Yes, honey. But… when we first moved in, it felt like living with a couple of late-night talk-show hosts.” Harvey set his glasses back in place. “But I haven’t heard any celebrity impressions, or what have you, in three weeks.”

“So _what_ -”

“And breakfasts?” He urged. “Think about what it’s usually like. Lots of chaos. We’re lucky to avoid something thrown at our heads.” 

“Maybe they’re just getting bored - you don’t freak out like you used to.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Could be. 

“But you don’t think so.”

“I think,” he said, carefully, “that there’s something under all this we haven’t figured out yet. And I think it’s building to something, so I’m being very, very careful with how I handle both sides right now. And honey, I know you’re worried about Casper. I do. But rushing into anything could cause the pot to boil over, and then I don’t know _what_ they’ll do to him.” He reached out tentatively, and put a hand on her knee. “Unfortunately, this is a _devil you know_ sort of situation. Does that make sense?”

It did. And she hated that it did. Looking down at her lap, she picked at the hem of her t-shirt and nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m glad.”

“But…” She peeked up at her father. He was in one of his comfier sweaters, and the hem of his white t-shirt peeked out from beneath the stretched out neckline. Even when her mother had been alive, her father had always dressed a little like a tattered ball of yarn. “Do you think you could just _try_ to get them to ease up? Casper’s having a really hard time. You’re talking about a pot boiling over. I’m sort of worried that he’s getting there, too, in his own way.” 

Harvey held out an arm and his daughter crawled over to tuck herself under it. “I can try, Bucket, but you know how much they like being told what to do.” She nodded and he kissed the top of her head. “Wonder if I should be trying to get Casper in to see me in my office sometime soon.”

“Like he’d ever have time…” she muttered into his sweater.

“One problem at a time, I guess.” He tucked her head under his chin. “We’ll figure it out. But like I said- your friend is stronger than he looks, and this isn’t his first rodeo with these three.”

She sighed, ruffling some of the pilled fabric of his sweater. “Can you even imagine what it was like for Casper when he was alive? They must have tortured him.” 

“Maybe it’s a good thing he doesn’t remember much, then.”

“But that’s sadder.”

“Is it?”

She nodded, the scratch of wool a comfort against her cheek. “He’s starting to remember his dad. And it’s all these good things. Sledding and bike riding. Stuff that we used to do. And I keep thinking about what I have, and how good growing up was with you and mom. And how great being a kid was for Casper. When he was with his _own_ parents. When he had his dad. And now he’s stuck without them. Forever. And _this_ is all he’s got left.” She sniffled, surprised by how much her eyes burned. “It just doesn’t seem right that he has to forget the good stuff with his parents so he can get stuck here. With them.” 

“He’s also stuck here with _you_ ,” James told her.

“Da-aaaad.”

“What, too corny?”

“Only a lot.”

“Sorry, Bucket.” He gave her a full hug, squeezing. “Should I let you get back to your chat with Mom?”

“In a minute.” She snuggled in, arms around his waist, breathing him in. Fabric softener and aftershave. She smiled. Made a mental note to jot that down. Memories were seeming more and more crucial lately. So she could tolerate a little corny once in a while.

* * *

Whatever her father had _attempted_ to do to persuade the Trio to ease up?

It hadn’t worked.

They were on him more than ever the following week, so much so she barely saw him beyond mealtimes, and they’d apparently decided a tag-team approach was more effective for keeping him busy. So one would assign a task, and when it was completed, another would be ready and waiting with a new one.

It was a broken record of _short sheet, do this_ and _Casper, if I see you slacking_ and _you should be doin’ your chores_ and _bulbhead, I got a job for you_.

It was setting her teeth on edge. 

Often she went to bed before he’d even returned to their room for the night. Then she’d wake up in the early morning and spot him in the little daybed by the window, flipping through the photos.

“Maybe I could help out,” she’d told him once that week, watching him pull himself through the house, completely exhausted. “Give you time to look through the pictures. I can handle some laundry-”

“They’ll know, Kat. And I’m fine-”

“But-”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he insisted, aiming at a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “This has happened before. I promise. Just give them a few more weeks and they’ll fall back. Until then…” and he’d shrugged before another call of _Casper_ dragged him away. 

The injustice of it - of him having to sneak these moments in the pre-dawn light - made her blood boil. So when her alarm went off at seven one morning and he was still asleep, curled up in a ball with a photograph pressed to his chest, she let him sleep.

She started coffee (but only because her dad drank it) and then set about getting cereal. The noises of the house kept her company as she ate. 

The click of the radiator. 

The hum of the fridge. 

The bubbling of the coffee maker.

The whistling of wind just outside the windows.

The yawn of the room’s newest occupant.

She turned, expecting to see her father. “Mor-”

Floating in the doorway, Stretch scowled at her. “Fleshie,” he said. His eyes narrowed, looking around the rest of the kitchen, in all its empty glory. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

She dropped her spoon into her bowl, pushed away from the table. “Don’t-!”

But he had already vanished, a plume of dust on the ceiling where he’d passed through.

“Shit,” she muttered, taking off towards the stairs. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

Moments like this, she resented being bound by ridiculous things like gravity and walls. By the time she made it up the stairs, she could hear shouting in her room. Before she could reach the door, it burst open with a _BANG!_

Stretch floated out, dragging Casper by the scruff of his neck with one hand and waving the _Christmas, 1884_ photo with the other. “-of all the selfish, irresponsible-” he was saying.

Dangling in his uncle’s grasp, Casper was stammering apologies ( _I’m sorry - I didn’t mean - just listen - I was tired - won’t happen again_ ) that landed on deaf ears. “When I’m done with you,” Stretch snarled, moving to pass by Kat towards the wall. 

When he was stopped. 

Adrenaline already churning, Kat didn’t even think before latching on to the arm that held her best friend. The cold burned her hand. “Let him go!”

Stretch darted a sharp glare her way and her hands phased through him. Off-balance, she staggered back, landing on the floor. Satisfied, he turned back to his nephew. “Kitty-Kat’s fightin’ yer battles now, huh, bulb head?”

“ _No_ , Uncle Stretch, _please-_ ”

An antique tchotchke flew through Stretch’s head, shattering against the far wall. He spun, dragging Casper along.

Kat stood, fists clenched around another probably-priceless antique, panting. “I said ‘ _let him go_ , you dickhead!”

“This is _family_ business, skin sack,” he growled. “Stay out of it.”

She reared back.

He waved the hand that held the photo, and the painting on the wall next to her crashed to the ground, making her jump back with a cry. Satisfied, he shoved Casper roughly against the wall. "I catch you with more of these fucking pictures and I ain't responsible for what happens next,” he spat. “To you, _or_ yer little bodyguard.” The hand holding the photo clenched into a fist, crumpling the paper before he dropped it on the carpet. “Get breakfast on the table.”

With a rush of wind, he was gone.

And there was silence. 

Kat sat on the floor, back against the wall. Casper sat across from her. 

Between them, the picture.

He reached for it, unrolling the crumpled ball. The faces of his little family twisted up and broken down. He smoothed them out against the floor. 

She heard him sniffle. 

“Casper…?”

Another sniffle. 

“I tried to stop him,” she explained, her own voice tight. “Casper… I _tried_.”

“Nothing you could’ve done.” Casper stared at the floor. “This was my fault.”

“No! No it wasn’t-”

“If I’d just been up earlier.” He closed his eyes. “I shouldn’t have been looking at these this late anyway…” He pushed the picture away. 

She moved closer, crawling to his side, pushing it back towards him. He didn’t look up at her. “Yes. We _should_ have. Whenever you want to, you should have. Because this is _yours_ .” She jabbed her finger down against the face of his father, now cracked through with white lines. “He is _yours_ . These memories- they’re _yours_ . And you deserve to have them _whenever_ you want. No matter what they say. What _he_ says.” 

“But if I’d just…” 

“ _He_ shouldn’t have done this.” 

Nothing.

“Casper. Listen to me. This is _him_ . He’s- he’s _awful_ and _horrible_ and- and it’s not _you_!”

Casper stared down at the picture. He pushed it away again. “I need to make breakfast.” 

He vanished away before she could say anything else. 

Kat sat in the hallway a while longer, staring down at the crumpled photo. Below her, she could hear the sounds of the kitchen firing to life. Staring down at the face of a father, a mother, and a child, crumpled and broken, she wondered if this was what a father meant for his child. 

A new kind of anger rose in her, and the letter was being written in her mind before she could make it to her room.

She didn’t bother finding her journal. The photo was face down on her desk, and the pen was in her hand, and before she even knew what she was doing, the words were there, pressed hard enough into the back of the photo to press through into the wood beneath. 

> **_DEAR MOM,_ **
> 
> **_WHAT THE HELL??_ **
> 
> **_Look at this family - THIS is his family. They LOVED him. WHY is he HERE with these assholes who DON’T deserve him?? He’s TOO GOOD, Mom. Too good for them. Too good to be stuck here. He stayed for his father - his father who ISN’T here!! So why are THEY?_ **
> 
> **_Somebody has to DO something._ **

The pen shook in her hand and she slammed it down. 

Somebody had to do _something_. 

If only she had the slightest clue _what_.

With an angry sigh, she took the picture to the nightstand, shoved it in the drawer with her journal. She packed and left for school without a word to anyone in the house, the question of ‘what’ tumbling around in her head.

* * *

She let it go for a few days. She didn’t have a plan, after all. Just righteous indignation and no one but her mother to vent to about it. She couldn’t explain it to her school friends - even though they noticed something was up. She’d waved off their concerns with a vague ‘family stuff’ and left it at that. 

Everything in the house was saturated with tension now. Meals were spent in terse conversation, or spent _apart_. She’d started eating breakfast early just to avoid them. She spent an evening in the town library (‘to study’ she’d told her Dad) to miss dinner. The rest of the time, she stayed holed up in her room, waiting, stewing. 

The house was a kettle on the stove. 

She didn’t want to be around when it finally screamed. 

So she’d been avoiding it all, letting the _what what what_ tumble around in her head like a shoe in a dryer. 

When she couldn’t come up with a good enough answer, scratching out every half baked plan that rolled through her head, she decided that the second best option until that plan _did_ magically appear, was to keep collecting. 

So that’s what she did.

She collected. 

After school, on weekends, while Casper was being dragged from one backbreaking job to the next, she kept searching. 

There wasn’t a lot. A picture here. An old lighter there. She’d scored a few newspaper articles about his father stuck in an old thesaurus like bookmarks. Something about conventions and inventing accolades. 

They went into the box beneath the _Tiger Beats_. 

One of her best finds was a letter. She could barely read the spindly handwriting, but it had been something about Casper and Christmas and _Wish I Could Be There_ , and she’d quickly stuck it under her shirt to scurry up the stairs, just in case. 

All of it went beneath the magazines she knew the trio didn’t care about. Boy bands and hair styling tips and _Ten Ways to Know He’s the One_. 

Whatever Casper said, she’d keep up their mission. The box under her bed was just… sitting there. Full of old magazines and _history_. And he deserved it all. 

One of her best finds had been a few doors down the second floor hallway, just short of the trio’s room. 

There was a lot of the house that went unexplored, and it wasn’t a novelty for either of the _fleshies_ to find a mysterious door or a swiveling bookcase or a loose floorboard that lead to something new and strange. 

Which meant that when Kat finally got around to opening the door on a rainy Tuesday after school, she had no idea what to expect. 

The ghosts were out for the day. Something about horse races in North Carolina, and she wasn’t going to let the time they were gone go to waste. The door stuck a little when she tried to open it, but after a few pushes with her shoulder, she managed to wiggle it open. It gave way, and she stumbled into a room awash with dust and white sheets. 

Kat sneezed. Coughed. Wiped dust out of her eyes. 

And then she rolled up her sleeves. 

It took time to pull off the white sheets. And beneath each, a little piece of the puzzle was revealed. 

First, there’d been a large oak desk. Then an antique telephone; the kind from the old TLC movies her dad used to watch. A spinning chair far beyond its years was under another sheet. And under yet another, a filing cabinet. Under a corner of a white sheet there’d been a strange bump that she found out, after lifting the side, was a bottle of whiskey on the floor, left on its side, like someone had set it there and forgotten. She opened it, smelled it, wrinkling her nose. She pushed it away, righting it on the floor. 

She stepped back, looking over everything. 

It must have been J.T’s office. 

Which meant that, somewhere in the room, was a potential treasure trove. 

“Operation: Memory Recovery is still on, Cas,” she muttered. “Whether the dickheads like it or not.” 

With a grin, she began to explore more. 

It took some time. The filing cabinets didn’t reveal much beyond some financial documents. Piles and piles of them. A few of them were addressed to an office in Boston, and yet another in Chicago. There were handwritten receipts from staff payrolls. Another few were lists of numbers to investment banks. Everything was organized meticulously. And everything was signed in beautiful, sloping penmanship; _McFadden_. 

She snapped them closed and went to the desk next. 

In one of the top drawers was an ancient pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Yuck,” she murmured. She tried the lighter out of curiosity. It clicked pitifully, but nothing happened. She held it up under the dim sunlight through the dusty window. In filigree; _McFadden_.

She dropped it back in and kept looking. 

A drawer below had business cards. In the drawer below that, spare ballpoint pens, all with the name etched in gold _; McFadden_.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Think your dad might’ve had an ego complex… Who puts their name on _everything_.” 

There was one drawer on the right hand side with a lock on it. She’d saved it for last. So when the rest came up with nothing, she finally gave in and grabbed one of the metal ballpoint pens from below. 

She jimied it without much effort. The lock was old, and the pen was strong. And when she’d finally managed to pull it open she found-

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh _wow_ …”

-a pile of pictures.

"Oh, score." She put aside the dented ballpoint pen and peered inside. 

She squinted.

Kat almost wasn't sure who the subject was. They were new. Not his father or mother.

It was a young boy. Four or five years old.

Her breath caught when she finally realized what she was seeing.

"... Casper."

She picked them up carefully, handling them like spun sugar. Like any moment they could vanish. 

They’d never found pictures of an older Casper before. 

The picture wasn’t of him as a baby, or a toddler. 

Looking back at her was a young boy, grinning at the camera in sepia tones. He had light eyes and fair hair. In front of him was the red bike from upstairs. On his elbow there was something white, tied tight, his sleeve rolled up.

Some sort of bandage.

It was his dream, she realized. The one he had about riding his bike. The one that ended the same way each time. 

A fall

A father

A hand reaching out. 

She turned it over. There was handwriting on the back. The same one from the filing cabinet. Slopes and lines, like ribbons.

> _Casper fell off his bike today. Got him back on. Growing so fast. Will have to send the picture to his Uncle’s. F has been begging for more._

“Oh,” she breathed, picking up another up a few more and stacking them onto the desk. “Oh _wow_.” 

There were more photo’s beneath that.

At the bottom, there was a piece of yellowed paper covered in scribbles. She drew it out carefully. 

A child had written in fumbling handwriting. Some of the words were spelled wrong. 

> **_HELO_ **
> 
> **_I AM LERNIN TO DO BUSNISS TOO_ **
> 
> **_ALSO I AM HUNGRI AN U HAV TO EET SOON AN I PROMISED TO TEK CER OF U SO COM EET WIT ME_ **
> 
> **_LOV LOTS,_ **
> 
> **_CASPR_ **

She laughed, surprised by how wet it sounded, and wiped at her eyes. She’d written a few letters like that to her parents when she’d been little. She remembered trying to play therapist, writing her father a diagnosis or two with stickers.

This was Casper’s letter to his own father. A plea for attention that was probably met with just that. 

A small goldmine. That’s what she’d found. An amazing, small goldmine. 

The desk held other treasures, too. Whoever’d sat there had taken great care to preserve it, and the surface was just as shiny and bright as it had been all those years ago. 

“Your dad kept a tight ship, huh,” she muttered, opening another drawer to find a few extra handkerchiefs stored away. _McFadden_ was embroidered on the edges. A box of cigars was there, too. She pushed those quickly away, nose wrinkling. Her dad had smoked them once or twice, usually after a conference had gone well. It had made the house smell like tobacco and cloves. 

The only imperfection on the desk were a few scratches underneath. 

She felt them when she was trying to open the middle drawer, fingers reaching beneath and brushing something rough and dented. 

When she ducked under, she found the etchings. 

Words. Like someone had taken the sharp end of a penknife, scratching away through the antique oak. She traced one of them. A long list of initials. 

S.M., J.T.M, S.M., F.M.

At the bottom, drawn in a hand that looked as if it had been aided by a steadier one; 

C.M. 

Her fingers traced the childlike uncertainty of the etching. “ _Casper_ ,” she breathed, feeling something like a heaviness pool over her. 

There was a time when he was happy. Free to etch his name into the space and claim it. It was as much his home as theirs. 

There were other etchings, too. 

A mangled heart beneath the desk, made by quick, short slashes, with initials inside.

N + S

With only mild curiosity, she wondered which ‘S’, decided quickly that it _had_ to be Stinkie, wondered again at the absurdity of their names, then saw something else that made her forget her wondering.

Directly on the underside of the desk, so she had to lay on the floor to read it, were words written in three different handwritings.

McFADDENS

NEVER

QUIT

A smile tugged at her lip and she shook her head. No. She was _mad_ at them. They were _dicks_. So what if maybe a hundred years ago they’d been fun? Didn’t change the fact that they were horrible now. And if she had her guesses, they'd probably been the same then.

She crawled out from under the desk, gathered up what she could hide under her shirt, stuffed the rest back into the drawers, replaced the sheets, and hurried back to her room.

* * *

It was past midnight when Casper dragged himself up through the floor. 

She hadn’t been able to sleep, hearing the sounds from the kitchen below; pots and pans clattering in the sink. He came back smelling like soap and bleach. 

Kat took back her earlier observation. The house wasn’t a kettle. 

She was. 

And _she_ was just about ready to scream.

Which meant that the trio sleeping just doors away had better start watching out. 

“What was it this time?” Her voice felt too loud, flecked with its own darkness to match the room. 

Casper didn’t look at her as he floated by. “Cleaned the kitchen and organized the pantry.” His voice was barely a croak; worn and exhausted. He floated into his bed, not bothering to get under the covers. “Uncle Stretch said he’d check in the morning. So.” 

She fell silent. The house around them was quiet. Shadows of leaves danced across the floor. 

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“You don’t,” she said, sounding just as furious as she felt.

“I _do_. And stop it.” 

“Why should I?”

“Because you don’t _know_ them like I do.” He rubbed his eyes. “They’re just angry.”

“But they can’t do _this_ to you.”

“Yes,” he said. “They can.”

There was more silence again. Kat thought about the box under her bed. The letter, the newspapers, the pictures. Her hands fisted tight into the blanket. “You deserve more than this. You know that?”

Nothing. 

“Casper?”

Still, nothing. 

She turned on her side to look at him. His back was to her, knees curled. 

“I’m not letting them take everything from you. Your memories are _yours_.”

“I told you…” His words were muffled by the pillow. “They already know about the photo album. They’ll take everything.”

“They won’t.” 

“They _will_ . And I don’t have a lot.” He curled up tighter. “If he knew we were still looking, I’d be in a vacuum bag for a month. So _drop it_ , Kat.”

She continued anyway. “Who says you don’t have a lot.”

“We already found the photo album,” he muttered. “Don’t want to lose it.” 

“Okay, but what if there’s more that they _don’t_ know about.”

“ _Kat_.”

She slipped off her bed, lifting the covers to reach beneath. When she opened it, moving aside the magazines, his eyes widened. “They told me to stop looking!”

“They told _you_. Never told me. Besides,” and she walked over, dropping it onto his bed, lifting the top, “they’re not in charge of me.”

“Kat-”

“Hey. What they don’t know.” She offered the new memories up.. He reached for them, but didn’t touch, eyes glancing towards the door, as if they’d _know_. As if these precious scraps would set off an alarm if he even dared to try. “It’s okay. You can hold them.”

He reached out greedily that time, swiping up the letter. His eyes misted, touching the spindly writing. 

She watched, crawling onto the bed beside him.

“You’ve been doing this?” he asked, voice hazy. “This whole week?”

“Whenever I could.”

“ _Kat_ …”

“It’s important to you, so it’s important to me.” She scooted even closer then, bumping against his side. “ _You’re_ important to me.”

He smiled, wiping his eyes with a nod. “Yeah,” he said, voice watery. “Yeah. Thanks. You’re… I mean-”

“I get it.”

She spread out more of the pictures, passing them to him. They didn’t dare turn on a light, relying on the moon outside the window, squinting at the sepia faces and dusty newspaper clippings. 

“I gave up,” he told her honestly. “Uncle Stretch - he’s been warning me. So I gave up.”

“I know.”

“But I didn’t _want_ to.”

“I know.” 

He flipped through the new articles of his father. And beneath those-

He choked on a sound. “Is that?”

“Uh huh.” She’d been waiting for him to see those. The newest additions. Pictures of Casper standing in front of his bike. “And look…” She turned it over, showing him the writing on the back. 

His eyes scanned it once, then twice. On the third time, they were welling with tears.

“ _Kat_ …”

“Yeah.”

“It’s my _dream_.”

She moved closer, wrapping her arms around him, resting her face against the top of his cold head. “Mmmhm,” she said, looking at the way he turned the picture back and forth between his smiling face and the careful writing on the back. “He was really proud of you, Casper. You got back on the bike. See?” She pointed to his elbow. “He even patched you up.”

He sniffled, wiping at his eyes. “I wish he was here.”

“I do, too.” Her own eyes were feeling misty, and she scrubbed them. “He’d be really proud of you.”

“Where did you even _find_ these.”

“The office.”

He looked up, and her head slid off his. “What office?”

“Down the hall,” she said, pointing towards their door. “The one a few doors down from your Uncle’s. It’s never open, so I figured I’d check it out.” She frowned. “You didn’t know it was there?”

“There’s a lot of rooms I never go into.” He shrugged. “Usually I find things when Uncle Stretch asks me to clean.” 

She thought back to the room covered in dust and white sheets. “He’s _never_ sent you in there?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Huh.” She frowned down at her feet hanging over the bed, swinging them in thought. “S’weird.”

“What?”

“Don’t know,” she said. She shook her head. “It’s just weird.” She pushed the niggling feeling away. She’d tell him about the office later; the carvings beneath the desk, the initials, the other pictures. The pens and handkerchiefs. 

He’d want to see those. 

One of the folded, cloth squares in the top drawer could have been the one his father tenderly wrapped around his son’s arm. The idea that something his father used to heal and help was right there… 

She swallowed back a lump in her throat. 

“Here. One more thing. Thought you might like this, too.” She pulled out the handwritten letter. “This is yours. Apparently you had to pull your dad away to eat.”

Casper laughed. It was a wet sound. He touched the words, and his face shuddered, falling. 

“Casper?”

“I just wish I could remember.” He picked up the picture of him in front of the bike again, turning it over to touch the spindly handwriting. _Casper fell off his bike today. Got him back on. Growing so fast._ “I want to know him. So _badly_ , I want to know him. And I feel like I almost do. Like he’s just _there_.” He wiped his eyes again.

“And you _can_ ,” she pressed, reaching out to grab his hand. “Casper. That’s why I looked for more pictures. That’s why I kept looking, even after everything Stretch did and said. And Casper… you can’t give up either. You just _can’t_.”

He frowned, focusing on the script in back of the picture. He turned it over, touching his little face, the handkerchief around his arm. He nodded. “No,” he said. “We can’t.”

Kat could have cheered. She grabbed his shoulders.

“They can’t find these.” There was new determination in his voice. He pushed all the pictures back towards her. Can you keep them?”

“Of course,” she breathed, nodding. 

“We need a plan.” There was new hope in his eyes. “They can’t know what we’re doing.”

“ _No_ . They _can’t_.”

“They’ll forget about everything soon enough,” he whispered. “Like I said - it’ll only be so long. So for now, I’ll do whatever they want during the day.”

She grabbed his hands. “I can help.” 

He was grinning, _beaming_ , and Kat wanted to cry. “I won’t look at any pictures. Nothing. And then when they’re out?”

“Operation: Memory Recovery will be a go.” 

Casper burst up, hugging her tight around the neck. He pulled away, eyes sparking. “Hide these,” he said again, pushing the new photos and the written letter closer. “Except-” 

“Yeah?”

Before she could take them away, Casper touched the picture of him with the bike, the letter on the back. “Can I keep this one?”

“Of course.” She nodded, watching him slip it under his pillow as carefully as he could. 

They went to bed after that. Kat burrowed under the covers, turning out her light. In the dark of the room, the moonlight washed through the windows, into their shared space, creeping across the daybed on the opposite side where Casper lay. 

It was the last thing she saw before she fell asleep. 

Casper. Holding the photo. His eyes shone. 

And he was smiling. 

Something in Kat burned bright and unfamiliar, and it took her a moment to realize what it was. 

Hope. 

_Dear Mom_ , she thought idly, eyes heavy and shuttering closed. _Things might turn out alright. And I’m the reason why_. 

* * *

Kat was right about at least one thing - living with ghosts meant that she lived with only the illusion (not a guarantee) of privacy. If a thick, steel-walled, combination-locked safe was easy pickings for a ghost to enter and unlock, then locking her bedroom door before school was pointless. 

She did it, but it was pointless.

The trio had gotten a few laughs, a few cheap thrills, early on, wandering in and rummaging through her things, but it had gotten old pretty quickly and they’d moved on. Now, however, their leader was on a mission.

He’d put his foot down (so to speak) pretty damn hard, but these kids weren’t falling in line as sufficiently as he’d like. They still whispered to each other in the kitchen before he entered. The living one still rolled her eyes when she wasn’t too busy trying to glare a hole through his head. Doc called her ‘spirited’. Stretch had another word for it.

That had been going on for a few weeks. And then, like someone had flipped a switch in their little heads, it stopped. 

The whispering in the kitchen, the quiet conversations in corners. Rooms were spotless when he entered, and Casper was at each and every dinner without so much as a complaint. 

It was like the incident in the hallway never happened. Like the threats and the promises had blown off their shoulders, and they were content to follow the rigid rules he’d set out with an iron fist. 

And he wasn’t buying it. 

There was no way. Kat was too stubborn. Casper, too curious. He knew the girl. And he _knew_ his nephew. And together, they made a team of kids he didn’t altogether trust. 

They thought they could pull one over on him?

He’d show them.

He floated in the center of the room, midday sun filling the space. The fleshies were out - the kid at school, the Doc making a housecall. His brothers were occupied with The Price is Right. His nephew was outside, polishing the wrought iron gates - be busy with that for a while. 

He could take his time.

He checked the closet first, sifting through the clothes, checking the pockets. Opened each shoe box on the floor. The dresser was next, rifling through each drawer, running his hands along the underside for anything taped out of sight. The diary in her nightstand held promise. He stuck his finger in the lock, popping it open with ease. A quick flip through, though, and all he’d learned was that her vocabulary was more colorful than she let on. He’d almost be proud if he weren’t so infuriated with her. This whole mess was _her_ fault. If she hadn’t started sticking her nose where it didn’t belong…

He shook his head, tossed the book back in the drawer, drummed his fingers on the bedspread. He blinked. The bed - duh. Stupid. Getting worked up was making him lose focus. 

He crouched down on the floor, lifted the quilt. Plenty of options there.

More clothes to poke through. An empty suitcase.

A cardboard box covered in stickers.

He slid it out from under the bed and lifted the lid.

Wrinkled his nose at the ridiculous teen gossip rags. 

Almost replaced the lid.

Then something caught his eye.

Something _sepia_.

“Gotcha,” he muttered, moving the magazines aside.

A dozen more pictures stared up at him.

“Yer in fer it now, ya little brats.”

Mind already racing, plotting, planning - _oh, he was going to make those kids_ _sorry!_ \- he picked up the pile, chuckling to himself as he flipped through. 

His fingers brushed something that wasn’t card stock. 

He paused, slipped the piece of paper out from the others.

A child’s early scrawl, all capital letters and misspellings.

It was hard to read. Something was blurring his vision. His hand had started to shake.

“The fuck-?” 

Then there was pain - hot, bright, searing pain behind his eyes - and he dropped everything on the floor to clutch his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, forced himself to breathe.

And then it passed.

“Jesus…” With a frown, he gathered up the photos, closed them back up in the box and slid the box back under the bed. 

The little note was still lying on the carpet.

Mocking him.

He was suddenly tired.

And furious. 

He needed a nap. Or a drink. Or both. 

Closing his fist around the piece of paper, ignoring the way it burned, he took it with him when he left the room.

* * *

Kat didn’t think much of it when, at breakfast, while inhaling a bowl of cereal, finishing her math homework as quickly as she could (ignoring the other ghosts mulling around), her father told her that he wouldn’t be home until late.

“You’re going out?” She smiled. “Good for you. You need a little fun, dad.”

Fatso passed by on the way to the coffee maker, giving James a hearty slap on the back that had the human jumping. “About time you finally got that stick out’a your ass, Doc. Good for you.”

He adjusted his glasses. “It’s nothing fun. It’s just some clinic walkthroughs. Going to see about getting a job outside the house.”

Stinkie, from across the table, dropped his fork. “What d’ya mean _‘job’_.”

“Well-”

“Last time I checked, you _had_ a job.”

Stretch actually seemed to look offended for a moment. “Hold _on_ . Ya’ can’t just _drop us_. We ain’t chopped liver, ya know.”

“Could've fooled me,” Kat muttered. 

Stretch gave her a biting glare. Harvey grabbed her shoulder and raised his brow at Stretch. Whatever brawl was about to happen fizzled away, and both his daughter and the ghost rolled their eyes, but backed down. 

“I’m not dropping _anyone_ as a client,” he said patiently. “But I actually would like to diversify my client base with people who have a pulse.”

“Rude,” barked Fatso, pouring in too much creamer. 

From the stove, Casper turned around, spatula in hand. “That sounds like a great idea, Dr. Harvey!”

“ _Thank you_ , Casper.”

Stretch rolled his eyes. “How about startin’ on the laundry instead of kissin’ up, Short Sheet.”

Kat “accidentally” tipped her orange juice onto his plate as she marched out the door. 

She saw her dad once more before she left for school. He kissed her goodbye on his way out the door after she’d declined a ride. 

“You sure, bucket?”

“I’m sure, dad.”

“And you’ll be alright alone after school?”

“Totally.” She flashed a thumbs up. “No problems here. And if there are, I know where to find the vacuum.”

“ _Kathleen_.”

“I’m joking!”

Sort of.

He leaned on the open car door. “Look. I know they can be…”

“Cruel. Heartless. Wildly brutal.”

“A bit much,” he cut in. “But we’re working through it. Just… give it a few days for whatever this is to blow over. We’ll make some more strides then.”

“Whatever you say, dad.” She started to walk down the hill.

“I’ll see you later then,” he called after her. “Last interview is a few towns away, and they’re having some sort of a dinner later. Won’t be back until late. So if you need me, you have my number.”

“Got it.”

“So no late snacks!”

“Uh huh.”

“And no boys.”

“For sure.”

“And turn the TV off after-”

“ _Goodbye dad!_ ”

He honked the horn at her as he passed, and she waved him down the road until he vanished through the gate and around the bend. 

Behind her, Whipstaff watched them go. 

And a ghost in the window did the same. 

* * *

When Kat came back from school, Casper was dusting in the old billiards room. She met him there, dropping her backpack and picking up a rag to help. 

“You’ve been at this all day?”

“Getting ahead of it all,” he explained. “Figured if I started early, he wouldn’t notice if I disappeared later tonight.” 

“Weird room to clean,” she said, polishing the cues. 

“He’s getting creative,” Casper explained miserably. “There’s a lot of rooms that aren’t ever cleaned. Ones even my Uncles won’t go into. So he’s been adding them all to the list.”

She circled the pool table, grinning. “But not the office, right?”

He shook his head. She saw the way his eyes sparked again. “Not the office.”

“That’ll have to be the next stop, then.” She dragged the rag around the edge of the pool table. “My dad said that they’re thinking of going to try and scare out a dog show or something next weekend. One of their stupid stunts. We can look then.” 

He nodded, floating to the ceiling to dust the overhanging lights while she stooped to dust the legs. Her fingers brushed something indented. She squinted beneath the table. It was dark underneath, and she had to squint to see. 

“What the-”

Like the desk in the office above their heads, beneath the almost forgotten pool table were more etchings. More of the scratched messages in the different hands. 

But these were different. 

She blinked a few times, and the list appeared in front of her. 

> _Oct. 1st, 1860 - S Kicked out of Kents Hill_
> 
> _Dec 29th, 1861 - SM back from school_
> 
> _July 13th, 1862 - S kissed a girl_

That one had been furiously crossed out by someone, but not so badly that she couldn’t read it still. She drew her finger down the list, brow going lower. 

> _Sept 30th 1865 - S move to Boston_
> 
> _May 5th, 1867 - F got gig_
> 
> _Aug 29th 1867 - SM grant $$ came through_

After that, there was a space. Clean, untouched wood for an inch or two. There was a leap in time, and she quickly did the math in her head. The next date was seventeen years later.

> _Mar. 5th, 1883 - E + JT = CM_

She almost called to Casper, excited to have found yet another clue. Family achievements, and his birth was one of them.

But the list didn’t stop there.

> _Oct 1st, 1887 - S staying_

She touched the S. “... huh.” 

And beneath that still, more markings. 

But while the format stayed the same, the handwriting changed. It shifted into the familiar, spindly hand she recognized from the picture upstairs and from a few of the etchings upstairs.

> _June 7th, 1888 - C got on bike again_
> 
> _Sep 14th, 1888 - C first day school_

Another little gap. And then, below that;

> Dec 25th, 1888 - _S Staying Forever!_

Kat's brow furrowed. The handwriting was different for this one. "Weird," she said, touching the letters. Below that, the handwriting shifted back to its same, steady, loopy hand. 

> _Oct 1st, 1890 -_ _C first baseball game_
> 
> _June 24th, 1892 - C first trip to Boston_

There was a new event etched for every year or so. Graduations, birthdays, first times to Chicago. The elegant hand never wavered, writing up accomplishment after accomplishment. 

Until the last three. 

There was another gap of space. Of clean, untouched oak. 

New handwriting appeared. This one was not as sure. Not as articulated or steepled. Some parts were deeper, and others shallow, with gaps between certain letters and none between others, and she had to lean closer to read it better. 

It looked a lot like the writing in her own older notebooks. 

A child’s hand. 

> _NOV2 8 T H 1 89 4- ALONE_

And the same hand, just beneath it. 

> _1895 - BOSTON!_

She almost smiled again. The hand of an excited child just beneath her fingers. And drew down to the next, expecting to see his same, manic penmanship with the final announcement. 

It would not come. 

The spindly hand was back. 

But it wavered. 

The elegance was gone. The steeples, half formed. Wavering. Wobbling. Pushing deep into the wood like he could have buried the knife through. There was anger beneath her fingers. Fury. Rage. 

A horrible, emptiness. 

> _February 1st, 1895 - Not with me_

She mouthed the words, running her thumb along them. She drew her hand further down, trying to feel any more etchings beyond that year. Nothing. And on the next three legs, she found much of the same. 

The last entry watched her quietly as she rounded back to it, crawling along the persian rug to it again. 

_Not with me_. 

And the date… She looked at the date of the second entry, then down at the third. 

The second: June, 1895

The third: February 1, 1895

Every date had been in order, except this one. A four month leap, yanked backwards.

She traced them again, curiously, reminding herself to come back later with a paper and a pencil to do an impression when she could.

“Kat!” From above, she heard Casper call her name. “Where’d you go?” He ducked down, peering below the lip. “Why are you under the pool table?”

She waved her rag, heart still pounding, newfound discovery just there, in the corner of her eye. “I was cleaning. But Casper. You have to see this."

“See what?”

“I think I found-”

The door to the billiards room opened hard enough to shake the lights above them. Kat reared up, head slamming hard against the bottom of the table. She cursed, holding the back of her head as the pain triggered prickling tears. 

Beside her, Casper reached out. He paused when he saw whoever was at the door. She squinted, teeth still gritted, and crawled out from beneath to look over, hand still rubbing her poor skull. 

She scowled when she saw him. “ _Dammit, Stretch!_ Why is knocking _so hard_.”

Her snipes didn't do anything. He smiled down at her, eyes gleaming. She crawled all the way out, kneeling. She didn’t notice her head so much anymore. 

A cool fear latched to her spine. 

She was suddenly very aware of her father’s absence in the house. 

“Would ya look at this place? Shinin’ like the top’a the Chrysler Building!” Stretch floated in an easy circle around the room, hands behind his back, a smug smirk on his face. “See what you can do when you actually put the time in? Might be hope for the both of ya’s yet.”

The pair stood close together, watching.

“Was this the last thing on the list today?” Stretch asked. He ran a finger along the edge of the table, brought it up to scrutinize. “Gonna hafta start makin’ ‘em longer, what with you bein’ so _efficient_ and all.”

Kat frowned.

Casper swallowed.

Stretch continued his way around the room, circling the table. Circling _them._ “And I gotta say, house ain’t been this quiet in a while. Keepin’ yer heads down, gettin’ the work done. I’m impressed.”

Kat squared her shoulders, moved to put her body in front of Casper’s as the older ghost drew near them again.

“Such a relief, havin’ things back ta normal again.” He glided past them, hands behind his back, eyes still on the room. “No more nonsense about ancient pictures that don’t matter anyway.”

The two of them turned slowly, tracking him, the living girl doing her best to keep her body between the two spirits.

“Unless.” He swooped down on them so suddenly that they scrambled back, bumping against the wall. There was a noise - a hissing rattle. A tremor. Kat grasped behind her and felt the smooth line of a pool cue. She pushed back harder against them when Stretch moved forward, and they dug into her back. 

Beside her, Casper’s chest was stilled. Their breaths stuck. 

“Unless,” Stretch said again, eyes fixing on his nephew. His gaze sunk like fangs. “Unless there’s somethin’ you’re not _tellin’_ your dear, beloved Uncle.” His hand fluttered to his chest. “Unless you’re _hiding_ something.”

Casper’s chin quivered. His mouth opened. Closed. “... _no_ ,” he choked out. “Ne-ver.”

Stretch’s smile widened until he was all teeth and eyes and venom, and Kat wanted the world to swallow them away. 

It didn’t. 

“Course, if we found out you were _lyin_ ’ to us,” he said, smile set firm. “Oh _Casper_ . I’m sure _no one_ wants to find out what we’d do then.”

Casper, from beside Kat, somehow went even paler. 

Kat grabbed his hand. 

_Don’t_ , she thought. _Don’t, don’t, don’t_. 

Stretch pulled back, folded his arms, tapped his chin in mock curiosity. “I mean, it’s not like I could just... _go upstairs_ and find somethin’ I shouldn’t.” Violet eyes flashed. “Right?”

Kat willed herself not to react. To keep her face passive even as her heart pounded in her ears. She felt Casper squeeze her hand back. 

_Fuck._

Stretch folded his hands behind his back, viper’s smile firmly affixed to his features. “Gave you a chance. Let’s go see, shall we?” 

In a rush of wind, he vanished through the ceiling.

Kat felt Casper’s other hand latch a death-grip on her sleeve. _“KAT!”_

Her feet were already moving, propelling her towards the door, as she shouted back. “Go! Go!”

He wasn’t behind her. He’d gone up through the ceiling. The thought of him up there without her was horrifying. She took the stairs two at a time, tripped up once, catching herself on the railing, not even feeling the bruise on her knee as she pushed onward. 

The door to her room was open and she nearly sailed right past it, her momentum carrying her too far so she had to skid to a halt and double back. A hand on the door jam, her stomach turned to ice as she surveyed the scene.

Casper had gotten there before her and she almost didn’t see him. Floating by her bookshelf, his hands extended. He didn’t look her way. Didn’t waver. He stared, frozen, looking upwards. 

She followed his line of sight. 

And _he_ was there. . 

In _their_ room. 

Hovering just by the light on the far side of the room, right above the mantel where the pictures of her mother sat, watching him just the same. 

And in his hands-

“No…” Kat breathed. 

Rather than pull the box out from under the bed, Stretch had shoved her whole bed to one side, bunching up the rug and tipping over her bedside lamp. 

The magazines lay scattered on the floor. The box lid was on the other side of the room, where he'd apparently tossed it. 

He gave the box in his hands a shake.

Casper floated below, wringing his hands and watching, unable to speak.

“Couldn’t even make it a goddamn _week_.” Stretch leered over the tops of the box, down at the two children below, then called over their heads, “Hey boys! Guess who’s tryin’ ta’ pull a fast one on us?” He snatched the photos from the box, tossing it, empty, to the floor. It bounced off, skidding beneath the bed. 

Kat clamered to her feet, just as the other two ghosts swept in, cackling and pushing each other around to hover over Stretch’s shoulder. “Give those back!”

“Lookee here, fellas.” He ignored her, tossing a photo Fatso’s way over the beds while Stinkie grabbed one from the stack, cackling. 

Stretch clucked his tongue, shaking his head down at his nephew, who was looking sicker by the minute. “Casper, Casper, Casper… You really are full’a surprises, aren’t you! Still going behind my back with this shit. Told you, didn’t I? Gave you plenty of warnings-” 

Casper kept watching, eyes wide, following his fathers face as it shook about in his Uncles’ hands. 

“Those aren’t yours!” Kat tried again. She jumped on the bed, springs creaking under her feet. She jumped, trying to grab Stinkie’s tail, but he flew out of reach.

“Oooh! Kitty Kat’s angry,” Stinkie crooned. 

“Did I tell ya she threw a statue at my head?” Stretch smirked.

Fatso laughed, snatching another picture from his brother. 

“Uncle Stretch-” From below, Casper found his voice, wringing his hands together frantically. “I-”

“Can it, short sheet,” Stretch snapped. “Or you’ll be sleepin’ on the moon tonight.”

Casper’s mouth snapped shut. His hands shook, so he grabbed one of the bars on Kat’s baseboard, holding it tight. 

“ _Knew_ there was somethin’ goin’ on.” Stretch clucked his tongue again, grinning down. “Tryin’ ta hide away from your family to drag up some old pictures, huh?”

“I-”

“It’s just so _ungrateful_ ,” Stinkie said, letting out a few dramatic sobs. 

“And after all we do for him.” Fatso bemoaned. He looked down at the picture again. 

He looked back up, as if to make another joke, but paused. Looked down at the picture in his hand. 

He drew it closer to his face, squinting. 

His moment wasn’t caught by anyone else in the room. All attention was on Stretch and the kids beneath him, frantically doing their best to ease the chaos away. 

It didn’t work. Their bedroom was snapped up in a chokehold, and Kat was doing her best to keep it from drowning her. 

Casper floated a little higher “I’m _sorry_ ,” he pleaded, eyes never leaving the pictures in their hands. “I _know_ you told me to stop, but-”

“But _what??_ ” Stretch loomed over the smaller ghost, waving the photos. “But daddy dearest is suddenly _more_ important than the family ya got right here?!” 

“ _N-no, b_ _ut_ -”

Behind it all, Fatso was staring even harder down at the picture. 

“Uncle Stretch! I’m _sorry_!” 

Stretch twisted one of the pictures between his fingers. 

Casper’s eyes widened. He flew up quick, as if to grab them, but was quickly held at arm's reach by Stinkie. ““Ah ah ah! Wait your turn, bulbhead!” Casper glanced around him and up at his Uncle, who was bending the picture in half. The fibers began to give way. “Not so hard to remember with a little motivation!” 

He was cut off by a book thrown just past his head, and he blinked down at the assailant, grinning. “Well well - least you didn’t break nothin’ this time!”

“Real arm this one’s got on her,” Stinkie chortled. 

“Stretch!” Kat yelled, looking around for anything to throw again. “Stop being an undead _dick_ and put those down!”

“Mouth like that’ll land you into some trouble,” Stretch warned, ducking out of the way when another book was thrown at his head. Should’a expected that though. Jounral has plenty of it.”

Kat froze. Her stomach twisted up tight. “What…” she choked. “What do you-”

“ _Dear ma’_ ,” he mocked, snorting. “Bad place ta’ hide somethin’ by the way, Kitty Kat. Thought you’d be smarter than that.” He floated closer towards the hearth where the pictures of her mother sat, still watching him back with cool eyes. 

Her arms fell to her sides, shoulders lowering. Her head spun. Thinking of what he might have seen, might have read, might do-

“Bodyguard ain’t doin’ much for you now, huh bulbhead.” He twisted the picture harder. “Wonder how many of these we’d need to rip before ya figure that out.” 

Kat closed her eyes tight. 

_It doesn’t matter_ , she intoned. _Whatever he saw. It doesn’t matter_ . She did her best to push away the desolate emptiness in her stomach. It wasn’t the time to be afraid. Wasn’t the time to be useless. _It doesn’t matter_ , she told herself again, eyes opening, shoulders squaring. _Casper matters_. 

Kat barely had time to climb off the bed and do _something_ before something sailed past her nose. It was blue and white, and she realized just after it flew through Stretch and shattered against the wall above the fireplace, that it had been a mug she’d had on her dresser. 

A mug she had not thrown. 

A mug that had left the hand of a ghost, furious and panting in the middle of their bedroom. 

“ _Why can’t you just back off and leave me alone_!”

Apparently, her shock was not exclusive, as Stretch and Stinkie blinked, tracking their gaze down to their nephew, whose little hands were balled at his side, face pink. 

And, just moments later, it was clear that he hadn’t expected it either. Casper stuttered, hands balling up beneath his chin. “I didn’t mean-”

Stinkie let go of Casper, blinking down at his nephew like he’d grown a second tail.

Uncle Stretch recovered faster than Stinkie did, and his expression of surprise was quickly whisked away into a venomous leer. “Will ya’ look at that! Someone’s finally growin' a backbone!”

From behind them, Fatso’s eyes widened. He stared down at the picture. “Uh… Stretch?” 

“It’ll be so much fun,” Stretch said, ignoring his brother in favor of dipping down with a sharp grin, “to rip it clean out of ya’.”

“ _Stretch_.”

“Jesus, Fatso, can’t you see I’m in the middle of-”

“ _Stretch_.” 

"Aw hell, _what_?" Stretch turned around, and Casper (who just moments ago had been at the mouth of the beast) quickly scampered to Kat’s side. She glared up at the trio, stepping in front of her friend. 

“ _Look at these_.” 

“You did _not_ just drag me up to show me-”

“ _Really_ look.” And Fatso shoved the picture at Stretch. The eldest rolled his eyes, plucking the picture from his fingers to stare at it, holding it at a distance. “It doesn’t look… I don’t know… _familiar_ to you?”

Stinkie peered at one in Fatso’s hand. He blinked, and the same sort of look crossed his face. “Stretch… He’s right…”

“You two bozos are sick in the head if you think-” 

"It should be familiar." Kat wanted to be angrier, but the moment had changed, and she watched, fascinated, as their own memories began to stir. "It's your brother."

Stretch’s face shifted. “I know who he is,” he snarled. It didn’t carry the same anger.

“But do you _remember_?” 

His brows twitched down, like he was searching. 

Kat wasn’t sure what she was doing. All she knew was that it was working. She softened her tone, carefully walking closer to where the ghosts were floating high above her. The glass of the mug crunched under her sneakers.

Beside her, Casper drew in a breath. 

“Maybe… maybe if you give those back, we could look at them together.” She looked back at Casper, who quickly nodded. 

“Yeah!” His voice cracked. “Yeah - I can show you _everything_ of his!”

“You should get to know your brother again. I bet you have great memories. And,” Kat continued, fists drawn tight, “Casper _deserves_ to know his dad.” She reached up again, forcing her fists to open. The palm of her hand was marked by her nails. “So if you just hand them over, we can do that. We’ll even get my dad. Maybe he can help. But _please_ Stretch. _Please_. You all deserve to remember.” 

Stinkie and Fatso stared at the pictures. Fatso looked up like he wanted to say something, expression softening, but he stopped himself when he saw Stretch.

The eldest’s shoulders had lowered. Hands holding the picture so carefully, like she’d seen Casper do so many times before. And there was hope. _Hope_ that she’d gotten through to him. _Hope_ that she’d managed to pull him onto their side. _Hope_ that maybe she didn’t need her mother, who was silent and nonexistent, and that she could do this on her own. 

Hope, for a moment, that it had worked. 

That perhaps she’d managed to reason with the volatile spirit. Maybe even drawn up something in him that could soften him up _just enough_ to get Casper away.

It all ended when his face shifted again. She saw all the emotions flicker through his eyes.

Anger. 

Fury. 

Horror. 

… and something _else_. 

He blinked like he was trying to shake the feelings away, but when he looked back down at his nephew she could see them there still, stuck like burrs in his eyes.

The temperature in the room dropped. Kat could see her breath.

The lights in their bedroom flickered. 

"The hell you think you're doing, dragging the past up like this?" Casper, from below them, swallowed. "What? This isn't good enough for ya'.? Is that it?"

"Uh… Stretch…" Stinkie took a chance and hovered closer. "Maybe we should just-"

"Stay out of this," his brother snarled. 

His attention was caught once more by his nephew, and the furious, wild eyes turned downwards when Casper said, oh so quietly, "I just wanted to know more about my dad."

Stretch's fingers curled tighter against the photographs. 

“You know what, Casper…” The teasing animosity was gone in place of something new and dark. From behind him his brothers watched, just as on edge. “You want to try an’ drag up the past? _Fine_.” He snatched the pictures from his brothers, holding the pile of them up. He flicked his free wrist. An orange light burst out, silhouetting him, as the hearth he floated behind ignited. “Problem solved.” 

Kat’s fist fell over her mouth, and Casper shrieked, but there was no stopping what happened next, and the two of them could only watch as the pictures were tossed downward with perfect aim, and were swallowed by the fireplace behind them. 

Casper flew towards it with a shout, reaching, but he was pulled back just as quick. Stretch’s hand fell around his scruff, holding him in place. “Maybe,” he hissed at his nephew, “this’ll remind you to be grateful for what ya got.”

All he could do was watch. 

Watch, wide eyed, choking on pleads and gasps, watching his father's face -all he had left- bubble and burst and melt away against the logs. 

* * *

Stretch let him go a few minutes later. 

Casper drifted slowly to the carpet, numbly staring at the fire. 

“Come on, Boys.” He turned his back on the scene. Fatso and Stinkie watched him, just as quietly, looking between him and their nephew, kneeling by the dying flames. “ _Boys_ ,” Stretch said again. 

They didn’t look back as they followed him through the wall. 

Kat sat with Casper until the clock outside their bedroom struck 5, then 6, then 7. The fire had died completely. A few flecks of white photo paper remained among the gray ashes, but not much else. 

She grabbed his hand when it struck 8.

She didn’t bother getting pajamas on. Didn’t bother pushing the bed back, either. They left it where he’d pushed it. The empty box still sat on the floor. 

They ended up in her bed together, huddled under the covers to keep from looking at the fireplace on the wall just across the room. Neither friend wanted space. In the dark of her room, he glowed faintly, and she could just make out the sheen down his face. 

"I'm sorry," Kat whispered. 

Casper shut his eyes tight. Felt her lace their fingers together. 

"Casper… we'll find more memories. We will. It'll be okay-"

"They'll take those too," he whispered. "They'll take _everything_."

"Casper-"

"We should have never started looking. There's no point." He turned his face into the pillow. "I have to be up early to make breakfast.” 

She moved closer, feeling her own eyes burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We had the best time writing this. We are beyond grateful to all of our readers. Leave us a review and some kudos!


	3. Something and Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which clues are discovered, the hidden is found, and a ghost follows his memories 
> 
> d 
> 
> o 
> 
> w 
> 
> n.

Kat woke the next morning, expecting to feel numb. 

Numb and worn and sad. 

Breakfast was on the table, but Casper was nowhere to be found. 

By the time Kat stormed in the trio was already there. Her father was pouring coffee, staring around at everyone looking like a man at sea. So he didn’t know. Yet. 

It was quieter than normal. Stinkie and Fatso aimlessly picked at their plates.. Stretch lit up with a familiar gleam when she entered. Holding her chin high, she grabbed her own breakfast off the table before moving to storm back out. 

“What?” Stretch heckled. His eyes still held dregs of anger and something else that she didn’t want to stay long enough to analyze. “No warm welcome today?”

She bit her tongue, turned around, and marched out without a word. 

* * *

Their room was still empty. 

Casper hadn’t returned after that night. The fire in the hearth had died down, and the room was beginning to suffer from the chill. Kat took her breakfast and sat on the floor by her bed, staring into the fireplace. 

In the cinders, she could still see the little scraps of burnt sepia gasping through the ash. Her stomach rolled, and she pushed the bagel she’d grabbed away. 

Crawling towards the fireplace, sitting on her knees, she grabbed a poker and sifted through. Not that she expected to find anything. 

But she could hope. 

Or maybe she couldn’t. 

_No_ , she chastised, squeezing her eyes shut. She couldn’t think like that. Not now. 

She wasn’t going to let them win. Couldn’t. There had to be more.

She couldn’t stop seeing it; the image of his father's face, bubbling and hissing and turning to ash. The bright terror, hot as flame, when Stretch had ripped the pictures from her hands and sent it into the hearth. The look Stretch had given them. Like it hadn’t mattered. 

Kat let the poker drop, and it clattered against the cold stone. 

Stretch had ignited the fire last night to destroy. She needed to do the same now, for her own reasons. 

“Don’t worry, Cas.” She stood up. “We’re still in the game.” 

She got dressed, pulling on her most comfortable jeans and a warm shirt and tied up her hair tight. Looking at herself in the mirror of her vanity, she gave a nod. She looked ready to hunt for more memories. 

But she couldn’t just find a few this time. 

They could destroy paper. They couldn’t destroy anything in Casper’s head. And she needed to find enough to bring it all back. _Everything_. 

This was no longer an operation. This was war. 

Before she left their room, Kat went over to Casper’s bed and grabbed the photo he’d stored beneath his pillow. It felt risky to leave it there where anyone could find it. The little boy by the bike grinned up at her. 

She turned it over, looking at the spindly writing on the back. “Don’t worry,” she said, drifting her hand across it. “I’m going to help your son. And I’m going to help you. And he’ll be yours again. Promise.” 

She grabbed the book beside Casper’s bed and stuffed it into the pages. That would be fine for now. 

She’d scoured a lot of the house already, and as she stepped out into the hallway, wondering where she should try next, she spotted a flickering sconce in the direction of the stairs. “Shit,” she whispered. Wandering all around the house was a bad idea. She needed to pick a single spot, somewhere it would be easy to hide in if any unwelcome spirits happened to come looking for her.

She knew just the place.

They never asked him to clean the attic and, as she pulled down the ladder, it dawned on her the possible reason. Why send him to the spot most likely to reawaken memories when they didn’t want him remembering?

Well, too bad for them.

She climbed the ladder and pulled it back up after as quietly as she could. 

The room, though large, was jam-packed. So much so that moving around without bumping into things proved challenging. She tried to squeeze past what looked like a record player with a tuba attached and nearly sent the whole thing toppling. At the last moment she caught it with both arms and steadied it.

Heart pounding, she carefully let go. The last thing she needed was to make a racket and let anyone know where she was. She took a deep breath and turned…

...straight into a taxidermied bear.

Both hands flew to her mouth to muffle the scream. Another deep breath. “God _damn…”_ she whispered. “There better be something good up here.”

It might have been fun, exploring this space, if she wasn’t so angry, so desperate. Every trunk of old clothing, every box of fancy china was a slap in the face, a dead end. 

There were a lot of boxes scattered throughout. In one, she found nothing but old records. In another, a stack of old magazines that were mostly eaten through by age. 

In one corner, she thought she’d found gold with a chest (all good things came in chests - the stories _said_ so) but inside was nothing but adult clothing. She lifted out a dress with too many buttons. It was probably his mothers. Apparently, back then, people wanted their clothing to be as difficult to get out of as possible. “Thank God for zippers,” she mutters, folding it back into the box with a sigh.

There were more boxes without much in them. More plates. Mugs wrapped in cloth. Newspapers. She found one thing there. A small article cut from a paper. 

> _McFadden child born. Father, inventor J.T. McFadden and wife Emily McFadden welcomed Casper McFadden at 6:03 am, March 5th, 1884. Says J.T. McFadden, “I have never felt luckier and prouder than in this moment.”_ There was a picture of him holding Casper just below. He was standing before the doors of Whipstaff. His smile was ear to ear. “ _I created an empire to give my son the world, and I intend to do just that. He and his mother are my very world. My inventions and ideas are for them_ . _I wish only that the rest of my family were here to greet him_ .” The article continued; _J.T. McFadden’s brothers were not present during the time the article was written. He states that he wishes them well and hopes that, despite their differences, they may soon meet their only nephew._
> 
> _J.T. McFadden will be spending time with his family before his business trip to Prague to sell his inventions. “My son has inspired new ideas that will be as bright and wonderful as he is, and the world will be better for them_.” 
> 
> She looked down at the little picture of the smiling father. Wondered how devastated he’d be to know where his child ended up. That his simple wish for a broken family to come together over a child had ended with that same child’s unhappiness. 

She put it back carefully. 

There was at least a little hope when she found a box full of books. Some of them looked like titles an eleven year old boy back then might have liked. All of them looked like they were in good condition. 

She picked one up curiously and read the cover. _Treasure Island._

Inside the front cover there was a note written in handwriting she didn’t recognize. 

_To Casper,_

_Merry Christmas. Have many adventures_ . _Sorry for not being there. Next year at Whipstaff._

She opened another one; _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_. 

Once again, inside the cover;

_To Casper,_

_Congratulations on graduating your 5th year. Will try to be there for your 6th. Keep up the excellent work_ . _Next year at Whipstaff._

In every book there was a similar message. Congratulations for achievements. Well wishes for trips. One bid him a good adventure to Chicago. Another was for the new year.

There was one towards the bottom that was a little more worn than the rest. Obviously it had been well loved. 

_20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_. She smiled, palm dragging along the cloth cover. She could imagine a little Casper with this book, curled up beside his father. 

Inside, once again;

_To Casper,_

_Happy seventh birthday. Sorry for not being there. Next year at Whipstaff._

She rolled her eyes, glaring at the floor, hoping one of the Uncles could feel her ire. They’d probably never gotten over those _differences_ J.T. mentioned in the article. Couldn’t bother to bridge a gap and try. “Didn’t care then either, huh..” She gave the book a little shake. “Why couldn’t you stay away _now_ , too.”

Silence was her only answer, not that she’d expected anything beyond that. 

There was a piece of paper sticking out. She opened the book to look at it. It was folded up and ancient. All she saw was a bunch of legal jargon. She tried her best to read it. Something about a lawsuit. She barely recognized anything in the craze of long words, so she set it back in and closed the book. 

The next boxes weren’t as rewarding. Coats. Silverware. Dust on layers of dust. There was a small box that was nothing but keys, and another filled with jewelry, but nothing of any real value to her mission. 

After an hour of stuff finding nothing, she sank to the floor beside a tarp-covered table, groaning. “Come _on!_ ” One newspaper article of his dad and some books signed by absent family wasn’t enough. She’d promised Casper and his father that she’d find him the jackpot, and all she had to show for it was dust and more dust. She kicked at the tarp.

_Thunk_

Her foot hit something solid.

Well. 

That was odd. 

Pulse racing, she moved closer on hands and knees. 

Did her best to dampen her expectations.

Lifted the tarp.

She let it drop so she could cover her mouth again, hiding the gasp. “No way.”

Lifted the tarp again.

Under the table sat a pair of worn cardboard boxes, tied shut with twine. Each bore writing in bold black letters.

‘ **CASPER’S UNCLES** ’ read the box on top.

Beneath that; ' **CASPER’S FATHER** ’.

“Holy shit.” She brushed dust from the lid of the top box and her fingers caught on an envelope she hadn’t noticed tucked under the twine. Delicately she slipped it loose. There wasn’t a name on the envelope, and it wasn’t sealed. The slip of paper within wasn’t as yellowed as the envelope; she wondered if it had ever been opened.

The handwriting was beautiful. She squinted in the dim light.

I wanted to get these out of the house, but I’ve been dismissed along with the rest of the household, and lost my window of opportunity.

I expect it won’t be long before the bank seizes the property.

I hope you find these before they send in the auctioneer.

My sincerest apologies for everything.

~ Penelope

“Huh.” Kat refolded the slip of paper, tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans. She let the tarp fall again. Glanced up at the dead bear. “Guess you were worth it after all.”

She left the boxes where they were until later in the afternoon, when she could hear the TV on downstairs - one of those ‘air your domestic disputes on television while the audience eggs you on to violence’ shows that the trio enjoyed. She had about an hour to get the job done.

As she made her way back upstairs, she passed the playroom. The model train was running. So that’s where Casper had retreated. She paused at the door, worrying her bottom lip. She wanted to tell him what she’d found. But everything was still so raw, tensions still so high. She should wait. Things would settle down, and then they could start again. More carefully, this time. More secretly.

It took nearly the entire fifty minutes to lug both boxes, one at a time, from the attic to her bedroom without making any noise. By the second trip she’d discarded her sweater, damp hair clinging to the back of her neck even in just a t-shirt. But despite the burning in her biceps, she slid the second box under the desk in the office with an immense amount of satisfaction. 

The room so untouched that even Casper hadn’t known it existed. The whiskey bottle sat exactly where she’d left it, dust still coating everything - it hadn’t been distrubed since she’d found it. It was as close to a perfect hiding place as she was bound to get. She delicately replaced the sheet, took a step back and brushed aside the hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail. “Ok. Yeah,” she said to herself. “Yeah, this is fine.” 

Quickly, quietly, she returned to her room. She flopped down across the bed on her stomach. Heard the library doors open with a _bang_ downstairs. Quickly grabbed _The Giver_ and cracked it open before the Trio glided past her room. A closed door was no guarantee of privacy with housemates who could move through walls. And though she felt a presence pause in the hall, no one bothered to check in on her.

With a weary sort of relief she put the book down, rested her chin on folded arms. It wasn’t fair. Why did they get to just carry on like everything was fine? Selfish jerks.

She stretched out an arm and opened her bedside drawer, fished around blindly until she extracted her diary. She spun the lock, uncapped the pen with her teeth, and started a new entry.

_‘Dear Mom’_

* * *

The trains were still running in the playroom by the time the sun had fallen. Kat could hear them from outside the door. When she pressed her ear against it, the little hoot of the whistle and the steady _ch-ch-ch_ of wheels made the room beyond the door sound alive.

She knocked on it gently with her knuckles. "Casper?"

Nothing. The train went around the first bend, and the noise drifted. 

"Casper… it's Kat… I mean. You probably know that already. Only girl in the house. I swear, sometimes… I mean. Uh." She closed her eyes and swallowed back her nerves. "I just wanted to check on you?"

She listened for a sound. 

Nothing.

The train whistled again.

"Anyway. It's dinner. I'm not even going down. Neither is dad. I think even he can't look at the Trio tonight." She laughed past the raw feeling in her gut. It came out a weak sound. "Anyway. Uh. I'll bring you something. Is there… is there anything you want? Anything?"

Still nothing.

"Okay. I'll check in again later…"

Nothing.

With a sigh, she pushed away from the door, made her way slowly back to the second floor. Rather than turn down the hall that led to her own room, however, she went the opposite direction, towards her father’s room. Maybe he’d let her watch TV in there, get her mind off things. She had her hand on the doorknob before she heard voices from within.

Voices that were definitely _not_ the TV.

“-ain’t never seen ‘im like this before-”

“-won’t talk to us-”

“-floatin’ on eggshells here-”

She jerked back from the door. 

The ghosts never went into her father’s room. It was one of their unspoken agreements. A strange, uncharacteristic respect that they didn’t often give to the humans of the house. She leaned in closer, trying to listen again. The walls to the library where their therapy usually took place were thick, and her fathers unwavering dedication to confidentiality didn’t often give her the opportunity. 

It felt like she was gutting something open. Hearing something the house usually kept to itself. 

“... tellin’ ya, doc,” she heard Stinkie say. “... didn’t expect…” 

“... not like anything…” another voice drifted in. Fatso. 

When Stinkie spoke again, too low to hear, she frowned. 

Two voices, save for her father. 

Which meant-

She knew what was coming before it arrived. The goosebumps on her arms rose, the hair on the back of her neck standing to ovation. A light in the hallway flickered. 

Without a sound, Kat quickly backed away. There was a closet nearby, one of the many in the hallway and without a second thought, she ducked inside it. 

There were old suits inside. The smell of mothballs almost choked her, and she shoved one of the arms of the suit over her mouth to keep from making a noise. It was almost no better. It smelled like cigarette ash and whiskey and age. Through the crack in the door, she watched another light flicker, then another, closer. 

And the missing link appeared. 

Floating where she’d just stood, she watched him hover outside the door. He didn’t make a move to enter. Instead, just like her, he pressed the side of his face to the door, violet eyes narrowing. 

His fists tightened. 

Kat pushed herself deeper into the closet, pressing the suit's arm harder against her mouth. The last thing she wanted was to get caught. 

Her foot accidentally bumped into something, and it _thunked_ lightly against her heel. She held her breath, hands wringing the fabric. Outside the closet, he hadn’t noticed. Absorbed by whatever was happening just beyond her father’s door. 

The voices were a bit tougher to hear from her hiding place, and she eased closer to the crack in the door, straining, desperately curious. 

“-what was the big deal anyway-”

“-so the kid wanted to know his Pa-”

In the hallway, the bulb in the nearest sconce seared brightly and then shattered.

Stretch glared over his shoulder at it and the voices went quiet.

The doorknob turned and the ghost leapt back, moved to take off, but wasn’t quick enough. Light filled the now-dim hall and he heard her father’s voice; clipped, cool. “Something I can help you with, Stre-”

“ _No_ ,” he spat a little too quickly, spine straight and fists clenched. “Can’t a guy float through a hallway without gettin’ the third degree?”

She couldn’t see her father, not from where she stood (and not unless she took the chance and opened the door a little wider, and she wasn’t taking any chances), but she could just see his shadow, arched across the hallway. “Course,” she heard her father say. His tone didn’t waver. Beneath it, she could hear ice. “So unless you need something…”

She saw Stretch’s fists tighten. He glared at something else in the room, beyond the shadow. “M’good. No _secret meetings_ for me, thanks.”

“Great.” The door began to close, light receding, but then it paused. “Heard about yesterday, by the way.”

Kat held her breath. 

The ghost’s eyes moved beyond the human again, narrowing. “Yeah, I _bet_ you did.”

“You know,” her father began. “I really thought…” There was a notch, then, as her father carved out whatever he’d begun to say. “Nevermind,” he finished. “We’ll talk Monday.”

“And if I don’t _want_ to talk to ya’ then?” Stretch floated nearer to her father, until all she could see was his tail. “And if I don’t want ta’ open up and share and hold hands? And if I don’t regret _nothin’_ , and this is just how it is? Then what, _Doc_?”

She knew he was waiting for her father to snap, because she was waiting for it, too. 

Instead; 

“Then I guess I was wrong.” 

The door closed. 

Stretch was left outside it, unaware of the girl watching him. She saw him float there, staring at the door. His brow furrowed, and his fists shook. 

“ _Whatever_ ,” he finally mumbled, and floated off down the hall, lights flickering after him as he went. 

Kat waited a good long while before leaving the closet. She counted to ten, then twenty, then to a hundred. At around one fifty, she stepped out. 

She didn’t bother listening in through her father’s door again. The place felt like a hot spot, and she wasn’t in the mood to face down any ghosts. 

The empty kitchen was silent when she went down. She grabbed an apple and a power bar and headed back upstairs. The playroom was still closed, and she leaned down, putting the apple against the corner of the door. She knocked again.

“Casper?”

Silence. 

“I left something for you, okay?”

Ghosts didn’t have the same need for food that humans did. It was more familiar and comforting than anything, and she hoped that would at least do something for him. 

“I’ll be in our room. If you decide to come back and need to talk, you can wake me up. Okay?” 

Still, nothing. 

She pressed her palm against the door, moving forward to lean her forehead on the cool wood. “Casper… about what happened…” She closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Cas. I really am. But we’ll make it work. Together. Somehow.” 

Nothing. 

She pulled her hand away, and it drifted towards the doorknob. Stopped. She couldn’t. Not right now. He needed time to process. To grieve. She’d been in his position before, and it was an impossible one. A lonely, empty one. 

“Alright,” she whispered. “But if you ever need me, I’m here.”

With one last touch of the door, Kat backed away and headed off towards their room. 

* * *

Casper should have been in bed.

He had to be up early, after all. Get breakfast on the table.

For the rest of eternity.

Sleep, eat, follow orders. Forget. 

For eternity.

Instead of sleeping, he sat in the playroom in the dark. Knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, chin on his arms. Curled up tight. Small. 

He’d heard Kat on the other side of the door, but hadn’t listened. He didn’t want to listen. Didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want anything. 

When his eyes closed, he watched his father’s face pop and sizzle away to nothing all over again.

Nothing.

_Nothing._

**_Nothing._ **

Had gone away in flames and pictures and fathers. 

Now he was empty.

And that was better.

To be empty.

The house around him groaned, creaked. Winter winds rattled the windows. Moonlight kept him company.

Bright moonlight.

Warm, golden moonlight.

Like fire.

But he was not burned away in them. 

He blinked, watching the shadows around him dance.

A gentle voice spoke his name.

A hand touched his shoulder.

The empty gave way to calm and he closed his eyes.

 _You with me?_ the voice whispered. 

And without a thought of attics or burned pictures or _nothing_ , he took the hand and vanished into the flame.

* * *

Kat woke the next morning to a rush of cold air and her least favorite voice in the world.

“Where is he?”

She flinched, jerked away from the sound, blinking in the still-dark morning. She glanced at the clock. 6:15 AM. She squinted back up at the ghost hovering above her bed, glowing faintly in the dark of their room. “What?” she croaked. Her covers were yanked back and she curled in on herself reflexively. “What the _hell?_ ”

“Don’t get cute with me!” He gave her comforter a shake. “I know yer hidin’ im!” the ghost spat, glaring down at her mattress. 

“Why would I _hide_ him?” She tried to roll over to go back to sleep, freezing without her covers. He flicked his wrist, and a book flew just over her head and hit the wall with a _thunk_. She turned on her other side, glaring. “What are you doing anyway. It’s too early.”

“He wasn’t in the kitchen.”

“So what?”

“He’s supposed to be there. Makin’ breakfast.”

“Like you didn’t do enough already.”

“ _Watch it_.” With a huff, he dropped the comforter, flew to the closet, yanked the door open. “Ya hear that, short sheet? I know yer in here. Why don’t’cha make it easier on yerself and come out now before I get mad.”

The teenager sat up, glowering at him. “He’s not here, asshole. I haven’t seen him since Friday.”

He twisted towards her, one eyebrow raised. “Eh?”

She brushed her knotted hair out of her face, swung her feet to the floor. “He’s not _here_.”

“Then where the hell _is_ he?”

He was in her face, but she didn’t flinch. “I don’t know.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Wrong answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.” She shrugged. “Guess you’ll hafta make your own breakfast.”

Violet eyes flashed and her bedside lamp blinked on. “Where’d you see ‘im last?”

“I told you. Friday night.. Here. After…” She gestured vaguely towards the fireplace. “Almost like he _didn’t_ want to be found.”

A translucent finger jabbed her chest. “Yer pushin’ yer luck, Kitty Kat.” He rose up, eyes roving the room. “He wouldn’t go nowhere else. Just here or-” He paused. Grinned. “Right. Stupid. He’s holed up with his goddamn trains, ain’t he?”

“How would I know?” She wished her words held more confidence. Lying had never been something she’d been particularly good at. 

“Save it,” he snapped. 

He vanished through the closed door. She heard him down the hall, banging against what must have been the playroom door. “Givin’ ya ten minute notice, short sheet. You’re either in the kitchen by then or you’re in a vacuum!” 

She scrubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Well. Going back to sleep was a bust at this point. She stared at the closed door, muttering a halfhearted “ _jerk_ ” that went completely unheard, so it fell a little flat at her feet.

Her robe was hanging off the back of the bathroom door, and she grabbed it, tying it over her pajamas to stave off some of the morning chill. 

She splashed water on her face and left the room, heading for the playroom. The apple she’d left was still outside the door and she picked it up. It was cold from the night before. 

She rapped softly on the door. “Casper?”

There was silence save for the soft _ch-ch-ch_ of the train. 

She knocked again. “Casper… your Uncle’s really angry. Some good news though. Apparently your other Uncle’s told my dad what happened. Not that it means much about them. But my dad’s totally about to wring Stretch’s neck, so it might get you out of making breakfast for a while if we go talk to him.”

Silence. 

“Maybe today we could do something?” She continued on, doing her best to put on a hopeful voice. “Figured if you were up to it, we could go out! Take a hike or something.”

Silence.

Kat sighed. She turned the knob and opened the door. “Casper, I know you’re upset, and I shouldn’t be invading your space or whatever my dad says, but I really think if you got out today, you’d feel a… lot…” her words tapered off when she opened the door. 

The curtains were closed, but the light was on and lit the room around her in a dim glow. 

She didn’t see anyone. 

“Casper… I’m coming in, okay?” 

There were a few old model trains on the tables. Above her head, the little train went in circles. 

No Casper. 

She frowned.

“Casper?” 

A quick look around gave her nothing. The room was empty. 

She stepped further into the room and shivered. “ _Oh jeez_.” It was freezing. She went over to the window to close it, pulling back the curtain, and frowned. 

They were already closed. 

She shivered again, tugging her robe tighter closed. 

And there was a smell-

Like ivory soap and coffee. 

She didn't have time to think about it when the voice burst out in the hallway, and she jumped. 

“Time’s up, short sheet!” There was a quick, jarring hum - the vacuum cleaner being revved - before Stretch appeared in the doorway. “So what’s it gonna-” He stopped short, surveyed the space with narrowed eyes. His gaze settled on the living teen.

“Not here,” she said with what she hoped was a casual shrug. “Too bad.”

“You just don’t quit, do ya?” He circled the room. “Relentless, the both of ya. Should’a known you’d come warn ‘im off.”

“Please. If I’d found him, you really think I’d hang around waiting for you?” She folded her arms, trying not to shiver. “He wasn’t here.”

That didn’t appear to be the right answer, because the ghost rounded on her, eyes flashing. “Then where’d he go?”

“You’re asking me?”

“There anybody else here ta ask?”

She rolled her eyes and he went off on a tear that she mostly tuned out - it was too early, and after that scene in the hallway, she wasn’t quite so scared of him anymore. She rubbed her arms against the unnatural cold, watched the train make another circle around the ceiling. It passed by the lightswitch and her eyes stopped following it. Blinked.

“The light is off.”

Stretch stopped his mad ranting to stare at her. “The hell are you talking about?”

“The light.” She pointed numbly at the switch on the wall. “It’s off…” 

He looked back at the switch, and back at her. “Well isn’t she the detective,” he growled. “Want ta’ point out anythin’ else obvious while we’re here? How about the wall color!”

“No,” she choked. “Stretch. The lightswitch is _off_. The sun isn’t up yet.”

“Yeah. So.”

“So how is it _light_ in here…?” 

“The hell should I know?” His tone was derisive, but he was already moving around the room again, eyes scanning. “Probably one ‘a these stupid toys lights up.”

She frowned, began moving as well, towards where the shadows pointed, the corner by the rocking horse. She came around a stack of crates and stopped.

There was something on the floor.

Or rather…

Something _floating above_ the floor.

It looked like a spotlight, like Tinkerbell from the stage show, just a hazy circle of light bobbing in place, casting its own golden glow. 

Kat crouched down, squinting. While the rest of the room was frigid, the closer she got to the light, the warmer it felt. “What in the world?”

“What’s got you so-” The ghost had come up behind her, shopped short. She heard him take in a sharp breath. “Oh holy hell.”

“What?” She twisted around to see his stricken expression. Her heart stalled in her chest. “What is it?”

“That…” he said, voice low. “...is Casper.”

Beneath her, Kat felt the world around her twist, open, and swallow her whole.


	4. The Old and the New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New discoveries are made, new people appear, and a new journey to a begins to a Place Between.

Kat’s ears were ringing. 

Her heart was jumping in her chest. 

In her head was an endless loop;

_That is Casper_

_That is Casper_

_That is Casper_

She did her best to keep up with Stretch as he whisked down the halls, holding the little orb in his hands, but he was on a mission and so she’d ended up doing her best not to trip as she sprinted after him. 

He stopped so abruptly at the top of the foyer steps that she nearly ran into him. He caught her before she could fall, righting her roughly. “Get my brothers,” he told her. “Tell them what’s goin’ on and meet me in the kitchen.”

She was shaking. Staring too hard at the little orb. Her head was full of cotton. “I- I don’t want to leave him-”

“Just _do_ it, Kat.”

She swallowed, looking at the orb between his hands. For once, she didn’t question him. 

Fatso and Stinkie weren’t hard to find. They were in their room when she ran up, colliding with the door before banging with her fist. She was breathing too heavy, still shaking. She was still like that when the door flew open and the two tired ghosts were floating before her, glowering down at the girl. 

“The hell you want, Kitty Kat.” Stinkie floated forward, pointed finger jabbing her shoulder. “You ain’t ever supposed to wake us up before breakfast.” 

Kat choked on a noise, inhaling deep as she could. “Casper-” she ground out, shoving her vibrating hands into the pockets of her robe. “ _Casper_ -!”

“Casper _what_ ,” Fatso said, arms crossed. “What’d he do this time?”

Kat shook her head, swallowing in air. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was that little orb. “I- I don’t know but-”

“But _what_ , Kat?” he snapped. 

She thought of empty playrooms. She thought of Casper and burning pictures. And she thought of that little orb downstairs; warm and small. She looked at the ghosts in front of her. It was hard to be afraid of them when the world was folding in. “Casper,” she said, finally catching her breath, the fear inside her growing and multiplying. “I think he’s- he’s…” Her shaking hands flew from her robe, and in a rare move, she grabbed one of each of their hands and tugged as hard as she could. They jerked forward, looking at her with bugged eyes. “Just come to the kitchen? _Please_?”

They couldn’t get much more out of her than her plea of “he’s in the kitchen” and “hurry”. 

So they followed.

The house had been split for the past few days. A chasm opening up, with two brothers on one side, and one on the other. Kat and her father had felt it. Pressed in the middle, looking up at the spots of light from way down at the bottom, wondering when it would close again. 

Standing in the door to the kitchen with the two ghosts behind her, she felt it. 

Two unsure, wavering ghosts, and the glaring one before her, his hands tucked closed. 

Fatso made a sound, like he was struggling to find the words. 

“We ain’t got time for this bullshit,” Stretch snapped, saving his brother from having to come up with something. “We’ve got a problem.”

He drew his hands down and opened them, dropping the light to the table. 

“Oh,” Stinkie said. 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” said Fatso. 

“Yeah,” Stretch agreed. “My thoughts exactly.” 

For a brief, flickering moment, the chasm built itself a bridge. 

* * *

Dr. Harvey had been dragged from his room by Kat after Stretch had barked another order her way and she surprised herself again by following it without question 

It didn’t take long for the entire household to be seated around the table. 

“So,” Harvey took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes, “you’re telling me that _this_ is Casper.” He went to touch the orb. Stretch slapped his hand away. 

“Right.”

“ _How_?”

“He’s reverting, we think.” Fatso looked down at the little orb, reaching out to pull it closer towards him. It hovered between his hands. 

The Doctor put his glasses back on, suddenly looking more exhausted than she’d seen him in some time. “Hold on. Back up. You need to explain this to me. I don’t understand. What’s… _reverting_.” 

Stretch blew out a sharp breath. “It takes a lot of energy ta’ be a fully formed ghost like us. When we found Casper, he could barely pick stuff up. Had just started to get his own shape. So if he’s stopped focusin’ - stopped usin’ that energy - then he’d fall backwards. Into this.” And he waved towards the little ball between his brother's hands.

“He’ll be back though… right?” Kat’s soft voice sounded so loud next to the ringing in her ears. 

The adults all looked at her. Fatso’s hands, still around the orb, laced together. 

Stretch stared hard at her and then at the orb. “Oh. He’ll be back. Like it or not.”

“But…” Kat swallowed. _That’s Casper, that’s Casper, that’s Casper_ played on behind her eyes. “But _can he_ -”

“It ain’t a question of _can_ ,” Stretch growled. “He’ll be back because I _said_ he’ll be back.” 

“Hold on.” Harvey snatched the attention back. “We still haven’t figured out what’s going on.” 

“Feel like that’s pretty obvious,” the ghost snapped back.

The therapist took a deep breath. “I _mean_ ,” he stressed, “it might be good to start at the beginning of this. As in, how Casper _became_ … this." He turned towards his daughter. "Kat... you found him?"

She bit her lip, nodding. "Yeah. We- we uh. I went to find him, in the- the playroom. And when I walked in... it was _freezing_." She closed her eyes, rubbing at them with her fingers. "Uh. And then- then Stretch came in, and we found him." 

"Like this?" James asked. 

She nodded, hair brushing her shoulders. "Yeah. Like that."

"And you have _no_ idea how this happened?"

“Think I have a pretty good idea,” Stinkie muttered. 

The eldest of the brothers twisted towards him fast enough that the chair _screeched_ against the floor. “You wanna clarify that?”

The hesitance he’d had just moments before began to waver when Stinkie floated a little higher. “I think you know what I mean.” 

“Fuck if I do.”

“Gentleman,” Harvey cautioned. “The last thing we need-”

But the spirits were rising towards the light fixture, his deescalation attempt crashing before even getting off the ground.

“You just _had_ to blow yer stack, as usual-”

“Oh, so I should’a _what?_ Tucked the kid in for story time starring _daddy dearest_?”

The dishes in the cabinets began to rattle, echoing the rain on the windows. 

“Stretch, he just means-”

“I know what he means! Traitors! The both of ya!”

Over on the stove top, the tea kettle whistled, though no one had lit the burner beneath it.

“What exactly was so wrong with him havin'-”

“I can’t believe I’m hearin’ this!”

“Gentleman, _please!_ This isn’t-”

On the table, the orb flickered. Kat’s eyes burned as she darted glances from it, to the feuding ghosts and back again. Her chest felt full of lead. Her father was on his feet, trying to be heard over them. No one was looking her way.

Without much thought, her hand slipped out, snapped up the orb. Quickly, quietly, and completely unseen, she crept out of the room.

* * *

The little glowing ball hovered and was warm to the touch. Kat held it close in one hand, wiping away tears with the other. 

The sun should’ve been up at this point - the grandfather clock was chiming seven - but the house was dark. Rain pattered at the windows, and wind pushed and pulled at the gutters, rattling them into a frenzy. She shivered. The whole house refused to warm up despite the clicking of the radiators. “Come on,” she whispered to the little ball in her hands. “I know where we can go.” 

The library was blissfully silent. 

The storm outside howled away, but she ignored it, settling down on the couch her father used for his sessions. 

The little orb in her hands pulsed again. 

“Hi, Casper…” She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Sorry. I just needed to get out of there. I had to think.” 

The orb said nothing. 

She cupped her fingers around it, staring at the golden glow it cast over her skin. “Whatever you’re doing… can you cut it out?” A pause. “No. I’m sorry. Maybe this is something that ghosts do… I know that when I’m having a bad day, I sometimes want to curl up under my covers. Is that what this is?”

The orb said nothing. 

She touched the orb softly with the tips of her fingers. It wasn’t solid; felt a bit like sticking her hand in a cloud of steam. And it pulsed, like a heartbeat. “The trio are losing their minds, you know that? So… so if you were trying to make them worry, you did it. Fatso is about to have an aneurism up there. Stinkie’s ready to start a goddamn brawl..” She took a deep breath, in time with one of the orbs pulses. “Stretch… I don’t know. He seems more angry than anything. But what do you expect…” 

The orb said nothing, but it did give off an extra pulsing glow or two, and she took that as a good sign. “I don’t know what’s happening to you,” she said. “But I’m going to figure it out. I _promise_.”

“I’d be more than happy to help with that.” 

Kat shrieked and fell off the chaise, her heart hammering up to her throat, as the unknown voice from behind her spoke. She nearly crushed Casper in the fall, but cupped her hands around him in the last minute, shielding him as her side hit the floor with a loud _thunk_. She could already feel the bruises forming as she scrabbled to her feet, hiding Casper in the pocket of her robe, twisting around to face the unknown voice behind her. 

But the moment she locked eyes with them-

Kat couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. She stood there, her feet on the frozen floor, an orb in her hands, a bruise down her hip, and her entire body feeling like it may have lit itself on fire at any moment. 

The figure moved towards her, arms lifting to greet her. 

And Kat knew-

She knew the smile. 

The hair. 

The eyes. 

The smell of ivory soap and coffee that washed off of her like water. 

The door to the library chose that moment to swing open, and her father stood there, umbrella in hand, the trio behind him, all looking ready to face whatever had made the girl scream. Dr. Harvey dropped his makeshift weapon with a clatter. “ _Oh_ …” was all he managed to say. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” said the woman. 

Kat choked on a sob, and ran towards her mother. 

* * *

When James Harvey was able to remember how to breathe again, he was just as quick as Kat had been to move across the room to put his arms around his wife and child. 

“I don’t… I mean… _how_?”

“Hello to you, too,” she laughed. 

Against her side, Kat sniffled, wrapping her arms tighter. 

Off to the side, someone cleared their throat. “Hey!” Stretch’s voice broke through, “Can anyone _please_ tell us _what the hell_ is going on?”

The little family broke apart to turn towards the trio of ghosts. Fatso was frantically glancing between each of them. Stinkie looked close to a nervous breakdown. 

“Right,” Harvey nodded almost manically, hands fluttered. “Right, right- yes. Right.” Amelia grabbed one of his hands and squeezed. He swallowed, holding it back. “Gentleman. This is my- this is Amelia.”

Fatso’s eyes finally settled on her. “You mean from the picture?”

Stinkie took a chance and floated closer, tilting his head. “I thought she wasn’t a ghost…” 

“I’m not.” She squeezed her husband's hand again. “I’m just here to help for the day.” 

Before Kat could ask what she meant, Stretch turned on them with such a speed that even Kat jumped, gripping her mother's arm. 

“Look, lady - we got our own family issues ta’ deal with right now. So if you could save this Hallmark reunion for later?”

Kat was about to turn around and take the brunt of his wrath until her mother smiled cooly and matched his glare with her own steady gaze. “Well aren’t you charming, Stephen.” 

The room could have imploded. 

Stretch reeled back. Violet eyes huge, he watched the woman with a sort of fear that Kat had never seen on him before. James spun around, gaping at his wife.

“How…” Stinkie’s voice quavered. “How do you know his _name_?”

She ignored the question, facing her Kat again. “Honey. Could you get us some coffee? You remember how I liked mine?”

Kat nodded mutely. 

“And could I please have Casper?” She reached out a hand. “I know you want to hold onto him, but I promise I’ll be careful.” 

Her daughter reached into the pocket of her robe, pulling out the orb. In her mother's hands, it glowed a little brighter. “Thank you, Sweetheart.” Amelia turned to Stinkie. “Samuel,” she said, and the ghost in front of her looked like he wanted to fall back into a pit. “Be a dear, won’t you, and bring more chairs?” 

Shoulders hunched, he slipped his hands into his sides like they had pockets, nodding. “Yeah,” he mumbled, eyes on the floor. “Sure.”

“I didn’t know you remembered your names,” James said to Stinkie as he passed.

Stinkie paused mid flight to rasp, “ _neither did I_ ,” before zipping off. 

She turned to Fatso then. “Franklin? Could you help Kat in the kitchen?” 

“Uh, right,” he choked. “Kitchen, yeah..” 

Her mother reached over and squeezed her hand. “Go. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Kat couldn’t find the words, so she numbly turned away. On the way out, they passed Stretch. He’d pressed himself into a corner, glaring at the room from the safety of the shadows. 

She must have looked for too long, because furious eyes found hers and she quickly looked away, scampering after Fatso through the library doors. 

* * *

“How does my mom know your names?”

Out of the library, away from her mother and Stretch’s furious gaze, Kat could breathe again. The anxiety of the morning was still sending prickles down her arms, but it didn't have the same numbing affect as before. Her heart was pounding, blood racing, and a fresh curiosity was doing its job to hold her other emotions at bay for the time being.

It also helped that she was in the kitchen with Fatso. The youngest of the three ghosts had never given her much to worry about, and so asking questions didn’t feel like cutting red wires. She watched him rifle through the fridge from her place sitting on the counter. Beside her, the coffee-maker was just beginning to percolate. 

“Dunno,” he said, turning around to throw a bag of mini donuts he’d hidden in the back onto the table. 

“But you know they’re _yours._ " She kicked her legs out, heels bouncing on the cabinets below. The panic from before had settled behind her eyes in a steady _hum_. Like TV static and radio waves. She stuffed her hands into her sleeves to keep from picking the sash of her robe apart. "How do you- I mean, how-" She shook her head, fixing her gaze on the coffee pot.

“Can’t answer that one either, kid.” He frowned at the cabinet, which apparently wasn’t revealing anything else appetizing to him. “Guess it was always there. Just outta reach. On the tip of the tongue, ya know? Soon as she said it-” He snapped his fingers. “-it clicked.”

She gave an indignant little _hmph_. “Nothing ever clicked like that for Casper.”

He turned slowly, eyes on her. “You mean this whole...photograph memory mess?”

She nodded, anger beginning to boil in her stomach again. “We spent a whole month trying, and he only ever could see things in dreams. Not like he’d lived them. Not like they were ‘on the tip of his tongue’. _Why_?”

“I-”

“Lemme guess - you can’t answer _that_ either,” she cut him off, fixed him with a hard stare. She was surprised how abashed he looked, not an ounce of fight left in his broad frame. She slid down off of the counter, crossed to the opposite cabinets and opened one of the lower doors. Crouching down, she stuck a hand in and pushed past the pots and pans. A moment later she stood back up, a box of pop-tarts in hand. “Not the only one that hides the good stuff,” she said when he quirked an eyebrow at her. “Do we have a tray for, like, the mugs or whatever?”

He quietly brought one down from a top cabinet. 

* * *

Kat struggled with the tray, heavily laden as it was with six mugs, plates, napkins, the previously-secret-goodies, the sugar bowl and pitcher of cream. James hurried over to take it from her while Fatso floated past, steaming hot coffee pot in hand. They landed everything on his desk where he’d swept enough papers aside to make space. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said softly, hand on her arm.

She managed to smile at him, and then jumped slightly when her mother came up beside them. “Pop-tarts?” she asked with a bemused grin.

“Better than french fries.” James shrugged. 

He got a conciliatory nod from his wife in response as she began pouring herself a cup. Then she plucked a foil packet from the blue box. “Come sit by me, honey.”

Kat followed, snuggling down onto the couch. The little orb hovered inches above a tufted ottoman nearby and she had a hard time deciding where to keep her focus - on it or her mother. How odd it was to sit beside her again, to watch her pop open the silver foil packet, to be handed a pop-tart like it was just another Sunday morning. “Why are you here?” she heard herself ask.

“You asked for my help, didn’t you?” Amelia blew at the steam rising from her mug.

Kat drew back from her mother, throat tight. 

“Wait…” James stood. “How did-” he looked at his daughter, brows tight. Behind him the other ghosts drifted near, save for Stretch who was still floating outside of the radius he’d set himself. “You asked for help? From your mom?”

“I don’t…” Kat looked down at the little orb.

“She did. Every journal entry. Every picture.” Amelia smiled, touching her daughter's face. “I _was_ listening, honey.”

Kat opened her mouth. Closed it again. There was a burning behind her eyes, and all of the horrible things she’d spewed were burning behind her chest. She wanted to apologize. Wanted to fall back away and hide. 

Her mother tweaked her chin. “Don’t.”

“I-”

“You were angry. You were afraid. I’ll never fault you for that.”

Kat nodded numbly, eyes pricking. Something rolled down her face and her mother swept it away fast. 

“Hold the fuckin’ phone.” Stretch finally swept forward, floating in front of the mother-daughter pair sitting on the chaise. “You’re telling me that you’re here because’a some _teenager’s diary_.”

Kat’s face bloomed hot. Her mother grabbed her hand and squeezed. 

“I am here,” Amelia said, facing the other ghost with a steady gaze, like a bluff standing firm against a storm, “for my _daughter_. And for Casper.” One eyebrow rose, and she tilted her chin. “And, for reasons I’m beginning to question, _you_.” 

He looked ready to snap back until Fatso moved closer, giving his eldest brother a look. Stretch rolled his eyes but fell silent. “We’re just trying to understand how you’re going to help us,” the youngest explained, eyes flickering between the orb and the woman watching him patiently. He laced his fingers, twisting them. “Do you know how to stop a ghost from reverting back to…” And he gestured weakly at the orb. 

Amelia shook her head. “I don’t.”

Kat’s whipped around to face her mother. Tears sprung fresh in her eyes. “ _But you said_ -”

“ _The hell do you mean_ -!” started Stretch.

“ _What_ ,” Fatso barked, jerking backwards. 

“Mom!” Kat grabbed her mothers arm, holding tight. “You can’t just- you said- you said you were here to _help_ -”

“I did,” said her mother evenly. 

Stinkie swept nearer, fists clenched. “So how are you goin’ help us, then!”

She smoothed her hand across her daughter's rigid, quaking spine. She watched the three ghosts with their wide, manic, furious eyes. “I never said I was here to help _you_.”

Fatso swallowed. “But… but you said-”

“Then what the fuck _are_ you here for,” Stretch hissed. “Ta’ raid our coffee and fuck us over and tell us there ain’t no way to get his form back? Doin’ a real bang up job so far if that's it.” 

Amelia smiled. “Stephen-”

“ _Stretch_.”

“There's no need to reform or reshape or whatever you're going on about. His _form_ is just fine.”

Stinkie gestured wildly to the orb. “But- _but_ -”

She reached down, picking up the orb, gentle as a baby bird. “This is not a reverted ghost. _This_ is a piece of a memory. A bit of Casper left behind to tie him to this world. A bookmark between two chapters.” Just as gently, she moved her hands to give Kat the little orb. Her daughter took it, holding it close. “I can’t help you bring back a reverted ghost because he never changed. He _moved_ .” She smiled at them, smoothing her skirts. “Which is why _I’m_ here.”

“And how the hell,” Stretch hissed, “are you gonna help us?” 

Amelia stood. “‘ _Go then, and with the beauty of your words, and any skill you have to set him free, help him, that I may be consoled_ ’.”

“Dante,” Harvey said, so softly, they barely heard it. 

Kat looked towards her father. “What?”

“Dante,” he said, louder. “It’s a quote. From Dante’s Inferno. Beatrice’s speech, where she explains why she’s going to find Dante. Because she’s not a savior.” His eyes sparked, like he’d suddenly put the pieces together. “She was a guide.”

His wife beamed. “You were always good with your classics.” She turned towards Stretch, who was looking between the couple like he was ready to burst. “I am not here to _help_ you, Stephen-”

“ _Stretch_.”

“I am here,” she said. “To guide you.” 

Fatso floated closer. “Guide us where?” 

She pointed down to the little orb in Kat’s hands. “To Casper, Franklin.” 

Fatso’s breath hitched at the easy use of the name, moving closer towards his brothers behind him. 

“I am here to take you to Casper.” 

“So.” Kat brushed pop-tart crumbs from her fingers, eyes on her mother. “Casper is, like, somewhere else? Like, like crossed-over, or-?”

Harvey had come to stand nearer to his family. In front of them, Fatso and Stinkie were staring mutely while Stretch paced furiously through the air, hands tucked behind his back. 

“Not quite,” Amelia said gently. “Not yet. There are planes of existence beyond just this one and the Next.”

“And he’s on one of them?”

“Mmhmm.” 

“How did he get there?”

“Ain’t that obvious?” Stretch barked, motioning to the little orb. “Kid ran away. What he does best. Probably figured out how ta’ dip out and never thought twice.” 

Amelia looked up at him, tilting her head. “Oh hardly, Stephen-”

“ _Stretch_.”

“Ghosts don’t have the ability to enter these places on their own. They’re pockets in time. Impossible to reach without help." She smiled, gesturing down to the orb still held by her daughter. "I sent him.” 

The way she said it, she may as well have been remarking on the weather.

The way everyone _took_ it, she may as well have been admitting to aiming a nuclear bomb at the house.

Kat’s jaw dropped. Harvey choked on his coffee. All three ghosts began shouting at once.

“You _what-?_ ”

“What do _mean_ you-?”

“Are you fucking kidding-?”

Instead of standing and taking the brunt of their wrath, she took her mug to the desk for a refill. When they seemed to pause for air, Kat took the opening to ask, “Mom, why?”

“‘Why’ don’t matter!” Stretch snarled. “She _took_ him. I don’t care _why_. Bring him back.” 

“I didn’t _take him_ , Stephen-”

“ _Stretch_.”

“I can’t just bring back something I didn’t take.” She blew on her coffee. “You can’t _take_ something that’s left on its own. I spoke to him when I arrived. I offered him the option, he accepted it.” Amelia leaned back against the desk, mini-donut in hand. “Without hesitation, in fact.” She took a bite, fixed the tallest of the ghosts with a pointed stare.

Stretch’s jaw twitched. 

“But you’re here to bring us to him,” Fatso said, voice hitched with something hopeful. 

“That’s right,” she nodded. 

“And you’ll help us bring him back?” Stinkie’s voice held much the same tentative hope as his younger brother. 

Amelia took a sip of her coffee. 

Stretch snarled, turning a circle to leer at his brothers and the humans in front of them. “What. So he gets to have a moment and we’re all supposed to chase after him?” Stretch crossed his arms. “He’s having a tantrum. He’ll be back. Not that he’ll want to when I’m done with him.”

“ _Stretch_ ,” Fatso hissed. 

His eldest ignored him. “The kid doesn’t ta’ make a big show and get what he wants. That ain’t how this works. He’ll be back when he figures out that he can’t stay away. Kid won’t last a night. You’ll see.”

Harvey looked towards his wife, standing just by their daughter. He looked back towards Stretch. “If I can play Devil’s advocate…”

“We ain’t in session, _Doc_.”

“But if I could?”

Stretch folded his arms in front of him, teeth grinding. He scoffed, but nodded. 

“What if he does.”

“Does _what_.”

“Does last,” said Harvey, adjusting his glasses. “You said he’ll be back, and that he won’t last a night. What if he does. What if he wants to stay away.”

“No,” Stretch snapped. “Not a chance.” 

Harvey went quiet. 

The ghosts eyes narrowed. “There somethin’ you’ve been holding back.” 

“I’m just saying - he left for a reason. And he has _reasons_. Stretch… I’ve worked with people. Kids, too. They’re strong, but there are breaking points for all of us. And what happened that night-”

“Oh, you’ve got to bring up _that_ again-”

“How could he not!” The new voice burst in, and they turned to see Kat standing beside her mother. The little orb pulsed, and she cupped her hands around it. 

“Kat,” Harvey cautioned. 

“You _broke him_ .” Kat’s eyes were blurred, and she shook her head, ignoring her father. “You took _everything he had_ -” 

“He shouldn’t’ve been snoopin’ in the first place!” Stretch snarled back. 

“Stretch.” Harvey’s attention flickered between the two of them, hand outstretched. “Let’s pause a moment-”

But neither ghost nor human girl listened. Kat lifted her chin, pushing herself into Stretch’s space. “He left because of _you_.” 

“Kid needed to learn a lesson,” he hissed back. “And so did _you_.”

“He deserved to know his dad,” she shot back. 

“He needs to get over it. It was a few pictures. So _what_.”

“It wasn’t just _that time_ .” She was crying again, but she barely noticed through her anger. Teeth bared, she stepped forward quick enough that Stretch had to jerk back. “It was every time. It was every _chore_ .” Another step forward. Stretch moved back, eyes flickering. “It was every _hurt_ and every _angry word_ and every single time you made it clear that you _don’t care_.”

“ _Wait a minute_ -”

“And if he doesn’t come back, it’ll be _your fault_.”

The final words were a blow, and they hit their mark just enough to see Stretch’s face fracture into something furious. 

And afraid. 

He lunged back towards her, until she had to step back to keep their noses from touching. “Like hell if it’s his time,” he snarled at the girl. “He don’t go nowhere until _I_ say he can. And I say he _can’t_. You got that?”

“ _Why_?” She snapped back. The little orb pulsed between her hands, and the light from it offered a spotlight on the fury. 

“Because he’s _my_ neph-”

“He’s not _your anything_.” 

“ _Kat_ ,” Harvey began. Amelia grabbed his elbow. Shook her head. 

The little ball in Kat’s hands pulsed again, illuminating the unreadable expression on Stretch’s face.

“He belongs with his _dad_ .” This time, when Kat stepped forward, Stretch did not push back. “He always has. He always will. And you can’t do anything to stop it. Because he isn’t _yours_.” 

Stretch swallowed, looking at the ball. When his anger returned, it was a low, warning simmer. The lights on the walls flickered. “Give it a day,” he said, voice dark. “He’ll be crawling back here. You’ll all see.” 

Amelia watched him over her coffee cup. “You think?”

“I _know_ ,” he snarled, turning to his brothers. They flinched back. “You’re all playin’ right into his hand. That ain’t how it goes.” He turned back to Amelia, sneering. “You don’t feed a fire. You starve it out.” 

“Or in your case,” she mused, gaze fixed, “pour on gasoline.”

Stretch’s jaw shut with a _clip_.

Amelia took a sip of her coffee, watching the eldest ghost. The tension was drowning. “It doesn’t matter what you say, Stephen. You can prophesize and dictate and bring down your big, scary fist, but it won’t matter. A day is as long as he’s got in this state. Things are in motion, so if you were interested in altering the trajectory, _now_ would be the time to get off the pedestal you so frustratingly refuse to relinquish and do it.”

Stretch looked ready to correct her. To shout and scream about his name and _pedestals_ and _she didn’t know jack-shit about his business_ , but something stopped him. 

His anger fizzled just enough to try and pick apart her words. 

His brothers caught it before he did. 

“What do you mean, a day’s as long as he’s got…?” Stinkie flew closer, brows knit. “What things are in _motion_.”

“I mean,” Amelia said, setting her coffee cup down on the desk, “that if you want even a chance at getting your nephew back, we had better stop pointing fingers and get moving.”

The ghosts all looked at each other and the bridge over the chasm held firm. 

They nodded.

“All right then.” She swept back across the room to her daughter, folding her naturally into her arms. “Keep an eye on Casper,” she said softly. “And thank you for coffee.”

The teen looked positively exhausted, but she nodded as the clock struck 8 AM. With the orb tucked to her chest, she moved off to a quiet corner.

Amelia watched her, a sad smile on her lips, then she blinked once and the calm coolness resettled over her features as she turned to the ghosts. “Everyone ready?”

Stinkie swallowed, looking at the little orb. He glanced over at Fatso, who was looking just as nervous, shifting in the air. “And what if he doesn’t _want_ to come back…?”

There wasn’t a beat before Stretch was snarling, “We’ll get him back. And he’ll wish we hadn’t when I’m done with him.”

Amelia smiled at James. “We’ll be back, soon.”

“With Casper,” Fatso added, weakly. 

Amelia said nothing. Instead, she squeezed her husband’s hand. 

“You’ll try, right?” He said, quietly. “To get him back?” Beyond them, he could see his daughter sitting on the floor, her back against the bookshelves. She whispered to the little orb in her palms. 

“You’re a therapist, James. You know how this works.”

He swallowed. Nodded. Squeezed her hand back. “Good luck.”

Their hands unwound, and she turned towards the group of ghosts; two waiting eagerly, and a third looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Her hands raised, light pulsing from the palms. “I’d close your eyes if I were you.” 

Before any of them had a chance to ask why, the world fell from beneath them. 

The world dipped. Twisted. Turned. 

Stopped.

Stretch was the first to open his eyes. “Oh,” he said. “Oh you’ve _got_ to be kidding.”

The other two followed, peeling their eyes open to stare, and were just as confused as Stretch-

“Gentleman,” said Amelia, casting a long arm out. “Welcome to the Place Between.” 

-when Whipstaff Manor loomed in front of them. 


	5. The Perfect and the Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelia is a guide through the place between, Casper sees his father and sets up rules, and Franklin, Samuel, and Stephen try to break through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the alternative title to this chapter is "shits about to get real"
> 
> enjoy

“Just what in god’s name am I lookin’ at here?”

“I just told you.” Amelia explained easily, passing through the open gate and walking leisurely up the gravel path. The house was ahead, its dark windows watching them patiently. 

“That don’t mean it makes sense.” Stretch followed but only so he could continue berating her. “Speak English.”

Trailing behind them, Fatso gazed out over the grounds, whistling low. “Home don’t look like this no more.”

“Did it _ever_ look like this?” Stinkie asked, raising an eyebrow at the expertly manicured garden lining the path.

“Who cares?” Stretch snapped, sparing a moment to glare back at them before flying ahead to block Amelia’s path. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t ask one that merited an answer.”

His teeth gritted and he pointed up the path. “Far as I know all your little magic trick did was make the rain stop-”

“-and plant all these flowers,” Fatso interjected. 

Stretch ignored him. “Who’s to say we even actually _went_ anywhere, let alone to-”

“CASPER!” 

In a blur, his brothers blew past him towards the house.

Stretch righted himself before squinting to where they’d sped off. In the large library windows, set in the gleaming, newly set bricks. The form of his nephew floated on the other side of the glass. He hovered just behind it, unaware of them from the way he faced away. And two of his Uncle's were going towards him.

And one stayed behind. 

Amelia turned towards Stretch. “You’re not going?”

He watched them with hard eyes as they flew nearer to the house. 

She nodded solemnly, but there was a glint in her eye that set his teeth on edge. “You think all this is fake. That I’m tricking you.”

“I think you’ve got everyone else _real_ charmed. An' I think _you_ think I'm a sucker.”

“I’m glad I could make such an impression.”

He shot her a look. 

“This isn’t fake, Stephen-"

" _Stretch_."

She gestured to the flowers, the landscape, the sun sitting against a frigid sky. “This place is a thing of mist and smoke, but it doesn’t make it less _real_.”

“Then what the fuck is it.”

“I already-”

“Tell me _again_ , then,” he snapped. “Water down your snake oil for me.” 

She huffed a laugh. “This _Place Between_ ; it’s made up of… _ideas_ . To hold time and memories tight and keep them safe. It’s not always Whipstaff. It’s different for everyone, depending on what they _need_. Which means that it has to be a place that means something. Somewhere special. A refuge.”

“No way in hell was this his _refuge_. Not unless he’s mopping floors in there, too.”

She artfully ignored him, lifting her dress to her ankles as she began taking the steps through the well trimmed grass. The two ghosts were still at the house, outside of it. One of them drifted back and forth. From where they floated, he could see their brows pinching. Through the window, Casper’s shape had vanished away. 

He waited for his brothers to follow. They didn’t, continuing their moth-like flit about the house. 

“He chose this place for a reason, Stephen,” Amelia stepped around a bath of yellow tulips. Despite the cold air back home, the weather in this new place was stagnant. It wasn’t a _temperature_. It was nothing. A blank canvas. "It'll be your job to figure out why."

"Always hated riddles," he murmured, too distracted by the puzzle in front of him to add in extra snark.

It was all… odd. Looking back over the home again, he noticed that the windows were too perfect. The bricks too bright. The little slant in one shutters that he’d always halfway recalled (never sure why) was straightened. There was a gleam about the place. A perfection. Sparkling and untouched, like new snow. 

Amelia nodded, knowing his thought before he could do much with it. “You're right."

"Generally am." He squinted at her. "What am I right about this time?"

"The house. Being too perfect. It's meant to be. It’s a reflection in some ways. A projector in another.”

“Are you paid by the word or somethin’?”

Her smile was warm. He could have chewed glass. 

“A reflection, because it’s meant for seeing things that are there.” She looked at him, eyes sharp. “Even if we despise them.”

“Same to you, Lady.” He cocked his head towards the New-Snow house. “And a projection?”

“What we want to see.”

He wanted to ask more when Fatso and Stinkie flew towards them. 

“ _We can’t get in_ ,” Stinkie panted. 

“We can’t get through _any walls_.” Fatso was close behind them. “Can’t get through the windows, either. And then we tried the doors-”

“ _Locked_ ,” Stinkie finished for him. “Everything's locked. Can’t even get through the chimney.”

Stretch whipped towards Amelia, glaring. “Told ya’,” he hissed. “S’fake. All a trick.”

She took in a deep breath, ignoring him, facing the other two instead. “You can’t get in, because you haven’t been _invited_ in.”

“Oh fuckin’ fantastic.” He sneered at her. “We forgot to pick up a _bouquet_.”

“What do you mean _invited_?” Stinkie was trying just as hard to ignore his brother. 

“Like I said.” She swept her eyes over them, landing on Stretch. “This is a _refuge_. He’s come here for safety. Security. You three are a smudge on that.”

Stinkie winced beside Fatso, who was rubbing the back of his neck. 

“So,” she continued, “you’ll need to be invited in. On _his_ terms.”

Stretch crossed his arms. “I told you back in the library. Kids don’t _get_ to choose. Shit like _this_ happens when they _choose_.”

“I’d argue it’s when they don’t have one.”

“You’re lookin’ for a fight, ain’t ya-”

Fatso cuffed his arm, cutting him off sharply and sending him stumbling back. “What do we do?” 

“I told him you might be coming. He wasn’t sure until I explained that the rules of this world were his to make. And if you agreed to follow them,” she gestured up the path, “then you'd be free to go through. And, if you’re able, to bring him back _with_ you.” 

“And if we _don’t_.” Stretch quickly jerked away from Fatso’s closed fist. 

She smiled. “You can wait outside. Or back in the library. Wherever you’d be most comfortable, Steph-”

“ _Stretch_.”

Her smile ticked, brow lifting. 

“ _Fine_ ,” he grumbled. “What are his stupid clubhouse rules?” 

Her walk quickened, and she strode briskly down through the grass, onto the gravel, and towards the front steps. The house loomed in front of them. “Knock and ask to be invited in,” she began. “When we’re inside, _don’t_ interrupt anything you see. And, if he asks you to leave?” She climbed the steps, pausing on the last one to look down at them. “You _leave_.”

Fatso swallowed. 

Stretch scoffed. “Anything else before we float into communist Russia?”

“M’yes. An addendum,” she flashed her teeth at him. “If you don’t want to be asked to leave, maybe keep your smart remarks to yourself.” 

She swept her arms towards the door. "Who would like the honor?" 

Fatso was the one to volunteer, passing by Stinkie, who looked near panic, and Stretch, who crossed his arms and refused to budge.

The bell rang. 

There was a beat filled with the echo of the doorbell pulsing through the house.

The door opened.

On the other side- 

The little ghost floated with his back straight, jaw set. He took them all in, eyes finding Amelia’s last. He held her gaze for a moment, nodded minutely, and asked, “Yes?”

That small, simple word seemed to throw his uncles off whatever was left of their game and Fatso faltered in his response. “Oh, uh, heya short sheet. Nice, um, nice place ya got here.”

“Uh huh.” Casper didn’t move to open the door any further.

The large ghost twisted his hands together, darted a glance back at his brothers - who were absolutely _no_ help - and then turned again to the boy. “Listen, I, uh, I thought we should...ya know, talk? Maybe? Think we could come in?”

The little ghost twisted his fingers against the doorknob, shifting, looking as nervous as the Uncle across from him. He looked behind him at Stinkie, who was doing his best to offer a hopeful, wavering smile. His eyes drifted again towards Stretch. 

The eldest Uncle was staring hard at the little ghost. 

Casper hesitated. “I don’t know…”

“Don’t worry about him,” Fatso said quickly, guessing the object of Caspers nerves before it had a chance to snap out. He turned around and gave Stretch a look. “He’ll be on his best behavior. _Right_ , Stretch?”

Stretch sneered, raising two fingers. “Oh. Scouts honor.” 

Amelia cleared her throat. “Remember what we discussed, Casper.”

“Yeah…” He nodded. The door opened a little wider. “You can come in.”

“ _Thanks_ , Short Sheet,” Fatso breathed. 

His other two brothers swept in behind him, Stretch pausing for a moment by his youngest brother to hiss _kiss ass_ before moving into the foyer of the house. 

The inside was as perfect as it had been out in the garden, and the three ghosts froze in the middle of the room to stare at the shimmering walls, and the too-perfect colors. 

There was also silence. 

A too-deep, too-settled, too-clean silence. 

Like the house was holding its breath. 

Casper hovered farther away from them, watching the trio of ghosts like they might ransack the place any moment. 

“So…” The silence was broken by a sharp voice as Stretch snapped back towards his nephew. “ _This_ is where you’ve been hidin’?”

Stinkie, the smallest of his brothers, did his best to yank Stretch back by the elbow. It didn’t do much, but Stretch at least got the message enough to sulk backwards as Amelia stepped forward. 

“Casper,” she smiled, “how do you like your space?”

“It’s _great_ . It’s… it’s _perfect_.” Once his Uncles weren’t his main focus, he relaxed, eyes sparkling. He moved a lazy circle around her, grinning. “I didn’t know a place like this existed! I could stay here forever!” 

Stinkie quickly moved forward, ready to quickly interject, but Amelia was faster. “I’m glad.” She reached out, touching Casper’s face. “I’m sure your Uncles are curious to see what this space can do.”

When Casper looked at them next, there was less fear. He nodded quickly, excitement bursting off him. “It’s _beyond_ cool! _Everything’s_ here. Everything in the boxes and in the drawers, except it’s _real_.”

“... what stuff?” Fatso asked, looking around him, like he expected a dusty line of chachkies to be hovering just behind him. 

“Everything Kat and I found. Everything that you…” He looked at Stretch, sinking a little away. “It’s gone, there. Because… well. But here?” He shook his head, some of the excitement returning. “Here it’s _real_.”

“But what does that _mean_ , Short Sheet,” Stinkie pressed. 

And the front door behind them burst open. 

The ghosts lunged out of the way, Fatso clutching his chest, as noise filled the room. 

And in front of them-

“ _What the fuck_ ,” Stretch hissed, Stinkie clutching his arm without realizing, his own head shaking. “What the actual _fuck_?” 

“ _That’s_ -” Stinkie rasped, pointing. “ _Stretch_ , that’s-”

Casper grinned, nodding. “My _dad_.” 

Sunlight filling the space as the man from the photographs strode in, suitcase in hand. From the kitchen, a woman with blonde hair and kind eyes emerged, smoothing out her skirts. The man let the suitcase fall to the floor, dropped his coat atop it and she frowned.

“J.T., _honestly_.”

“Relax, Emily. It’s my house, isn’t it?” He flashed her a smile and strode to the base of the stairs. One hand cupped at his mouth, he called out, “Casper!”

The spirits off to one side watched as a little blonde boy appeared at the top of the staircase. With a squeal, he galloped down, flinging himself into waiting arms. He was spun twice around before being clasped in a tight hug. J.T. pressed a kiss to the boy’s head. 

Fatso was still clutching his chest, watching the little scene. “This… this isn’t _possible_ .” His voice came out louder than it meant to, and he quickly lowered it to hiss, “ _this can’t be possible_.”

“You don’t have to whisper.”

He whipped his head over to Amelia. She was smiling at him. “They can’t hear you.”

“ _How_ -”

Casper answered that one, drifting around the little family still chatting excitedly. The memory of himself, blonde and blue eyed, was jumping up and down in the middle of the red and black circle that decorated their floor. “They’re my _memories_.”

His Uncles turned towards him, blinking. 

“ _What_?” Stinkie asked, finally detangling from Stretch’s arm. The eldest barely noticed. “What’s that mean-”

“My memories,” his nephew said again, grinning. “My memories _play_ here. Every single one of them! From- from my dreams. From the _photographs_ . They’re all _here_ . And Amelia says there are more of them, and we can see them _all_ .” He looked back at the little family. The man and the woman and the boy between them, tugging at his mothers skirts. “I get to see my dad and my mom again. And… and I get to see them with _me_.”

Fatso looked at the scene again. 

Paused. 

His brow furrowed. 

“This… is your memory?” he asked slowly. His hand was moving down from his chest. The previous shock was wearing away, giving into something new. 

A stalled confusion. 

His brows pinched and he stared and stared at the scene like he was searching a puzzle for the missing piece.

Casper nodded, watching with rapt attention.

“You’re… you’re _sure_ , because-”

The scene in front of them was continuing, and whatever he was going to say went unheard. 

Amelia glanced at Stretch just in time to see his right eye twitch.

“Did you bring me anything, Father?” the memory of the boy was asking.

“Oh, I might have _something_ in my bag for you,” the man chuckled. “But first - have you had lunch yet?”

“Mm-mm.” Little Casper shook his head.

“Well then.” J.T. shifted the child on his hip. “Let’s go see what we can rustle up.”

Emily was on their heels. “You stay out of my pantry, Josiah!”

As the little group moved back to the kitchen again, Amelia remarked, “What a sweet little family.”

In front of her, Casper beamed. “They’re _perfect_.”

“And they’re yours,” she said, squeezing the boy's shoulder. 

His hands shook, swallowing, greedily watching the little family retreat out towards the kitchens. 

Fatso folded his arms, brow still furrowed. “Yeah…”

Stinkie raised an eyebrow at him. “What’cha thinkin’?”

Fatso shook his head, looking around. “I don’t know. Something about them. And- and house this big...shouldn’t there be, ya know, _other_ people? Staff?”

Amelia shrugged. “They wouldn’t necessarily be important to the memories.”

“Still.”

“There’s _more!_ ” Casper said, flying in a happy circle around the group. “Wanna see?”

Stretch opened his mouth, but Amelia spoke before he could get a word out. “Of course, dear. Lead the way.”

So he did.

Off to the kitchen, where they watched Emily chase J.T. away from the stove with a wooden spoon, laughing.

Up to his bedroom, where Little Casper was tucked into bed with a kiss between his eyes.

To the library, where the furniture had been overturned and rearranged to form a make-shift pirate ship. J.T. wielded a closed umbrella like a sword. They wore matching hats made of folded newspaper.

Emily brushed in through a door. “What are you two up to?” 

Little Casper held up a pirate map etched in crayon. “Father and I drew this!”

“How lovely!”

“We’re _pirates_!”

Floating in the back, just behind his brothers and nephew, Fatso winced. 

Amelia looked over her shoulder at him. “Everything alright, Franklin?”

“Uh…” He winced again, touching his temples gently. “Yeah. Just. Headache.”

The boy smoothed the map out onto the carpet, explaining to his mother that J.T. had hidden the treasure somewhere in the room and they were going to use the map to find it. 

Fatso winced again, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. When he opened them again, he looked exhausted. 

She raised a brow. “You’re sure that’s _all_?”

Fatso shook his head. “I dunno,” he said, as he began floating slowly after her. “It’s just. Somethin’ about this.”

“What?” Stinkie asked.

“Somethin’ just doesn’t seem right…”

“He doesn’t seem to think so,” Amelia said, pointing towards the little ghost nearby, watching the scene with stars in his eyes.

“I _know_ ,” Fatso said. “But… but _somethin’_ ...” He rubbed his temples, eyes squeezed tight. “I just… It feels like there’s something _wrong_.”

She hummed, waving them to follow her out and back towards the foyer, closing the library doors with a flick of her wrist. The memory was cut away behind them. 

Stretch flew quickly, diving to Amelia’s side, his arms crossed. “So what,” he snarled. “Lots of stuff here is _wrong_ .” He held out a hand, counting with each finger. “Casper disappearing? _Wrong_ . This upside down Hell House? _Wrong_ . You, showin’ up like the fuckin’ queen of Sheba? Tellin’ us what we can and can’t do?” She raised a brow. He ticked off another finger. “ _Wrong_.”

She laughed, shaking her head, ignoring his furious scowl. “Are you trying to make a point?”

“Yeah, I’m tryin’ ta’ make a fuckin’ point, lady. I’m sayin’ that we shouldn’t even-”

He was cut off when someone ran through him. His tail misted away for a moment, and he jerked to the side. 

Another memory had begun. 

Stretch caught his breath, blinking down as a young, living boy ran past the trio. 

His shoulders heaved with tears, and he held his arm to his chest. 

Stretch’s eyes followed him, and his anger left in place of something dark and cold. 

And afraid. 

“Oh,” said Amelia, coming up beside the eldest ghost, watching him with sharp eyes. “I _love_ this memory. This is a fantastic one.”

Casper moved to the front of the group, watching the memory of himself run up the foyer stairs, still holding his arm. “What’s happening?”

“Your father had been teaching you to ride a bike. You fell off. And you were running to find him.” 

Casper breathed in quick. “I… I _remember_ this.”

She nodded. “You told Kat about it, didn’t you?”  
“My dream…” 

“That’s right. Why don’t you wait up there on the stairs for us?” 

He nodded breathlessly, already following slowly behind the boy, trailing him with wide eyes. 

She began to move towards the stairs after Casper, but turned around to look at Stretch. 

His brothers did the same. 

“Stretch?” Stinkie reached out. “You… you okay?”

He was frozen in the foyer, still watching the boy climb the stairs. 

“Stephen, you look ill.” Amelia watched her with ever patient, ever stabbing gaze. “Is everything alright?”

“What-” he began, but his voice caught. He swallowed and tried again. “What the hell are you tryin’ ta pull here?”

Amelia batted her eyes. “I’m sure I don’t understand what you mean.” 

He pointed a shaking finger up after the boy. “That. Ain’t. Right.”

She tilted her head, turning towards the boy and then back towards the ghosts below. “Is’t it?”

“ _No_ .” His voice was rough, like turned stones beneath a wave, and it was pulling him lower and lower. “No it _ain’t_.”

The little boy finally reached the top of the steps, and Casper made it up with him. “He’s going to see my dad!” Casper called back. “Guys! My dream! I get to see-”

There was a sound, like a sheet flying in a storm, and a hand was suddenly gripped tight around Casper’s arm, tugging him away from following the boy down the hall. 

Casper turned, shrinking back beneath violet eyes. He hadn’t heard Stretch fly up the stairs after him. 

“Uncle Stretch?” he peeped, pulling gently against the firm grip. 

The ghost was about to say something before Amelia reached the top of the landing, moving to stand quickly beside them. “Stephen. Remember. There are _rules_ . So either let go, or feel free to _leave_.”

He swallowed, hesitating, but slowly released his grip. 

“This ain’t right,” was all he could say, moving towards his brothers who were watching him cautiously.

Ghost Casper followed the memory of himself down the hall, the adults a few paces behind in a row, with Stretch bringing up the rear, lagging behind. The blonde-haired boy was sniffling, clutching an arm with a torn sleeve. They followed him to a door on the second floor, just before the door to the trio’s bedroom. The boy pushed it open, and they heard J.T. pause mid-sentence, ask, “Oh, gracious, Casper. What have you done to your arm?”

The boy stepped into the room, voice trembling. “Muh-muh-my bike-”

Casper the spirit trailed along after the memory of himself, sat himself atop the large oak desk, watching with rapt fascination as J.T. lifted little Casper into his lap and began to tend to the injured arm. “It’s my dream,” he whispered, more to himself than to his guests.

The adults filtered in. Amelia wore a calm smile. Fatso still looked perturbed. Stinkie, curious. Stretch-

Stretch stayed in the hall, arms folded. His hands shook. 

“I’m never going to learn to ride it properly,” little Casper said mournfully.

“Nonsense.” The arm J.T. had around the boy’s shoulders squeezed. “Tomorrow you and I will give it another try - together.” He held out a hand. “What do you say?”

Amelia sidled closer to the door, watching out of the corner of her eye.

“You with me?” J.T. asked.

 _“_ _Fuck!_ ” In the hall, Stretch put a hand to his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

In his father’s lap, while the young ghost watched with wide eyes, little Casper took the offered hand. “I’m with you.”

Amelia was no longer the only one who noticed the eldest ghost writhing in the hall. His brothers had drawn closer, looking at each other before Fatso said softly, “Stretch?”

Rather than respond, he drew in a sharp breath and took off — up and out through the second story wall.

“Huh.” Amelia said, staring at the place he’d been with an easy patience. “Well that’s strange, isn’t it?”

Stinkie gaped at the space where the eldest had been. “The hell’s goin’ on with you two?”

Fatso turned towards his brother. “You don’t- I mean- this place doesn’t give you a headache?”

“Should it?”

“Guys?” Casper was floating between them, peering out into the hallway. “Where’d Uncle Stretch go?”

“Uh…”

Amelia put a hand on the little ghost’s shoulder. “He just stepped out for some air. We’ll go and find him. In the meantime, you know what sounds fun? In the backyard right now, I think there may be another memory!” She leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “Your father has just thrown you a birthday party. I hear it’s a real event.”

“ _Really_?” His eyes lit up.

“Really.” She put a hand on his back, nudging him in the right direction. “Go check it out.” 

“Are you sure you don’t need me to-”

“Course not.” She flicked the space between his brows. “Go have fun. We’ll find you when it’s done. Your Uncles and I need to have a chat anyway."

“Kay.” With a smile and a nod, he flew off.

She watched him go, and then turned to the other two. “Come along then.” She breezed from the room with such an air of authority that the pair of them followed without question.

* * *

They found the wayward eldest brother out on the bluffs, under a jarringly dark, star-flecked sky. A full moon that was much too big hung above without a cloud in sight. 

“Lovely night,” Amelia hummed.

He jerked slightly at the sound, but didn’t turn. Arms crossed, shoulders hunched, he kept his eyes on a sea that refused to generate waves.

The sound of music floated over from over the spires of the manor - a band playing a rousing rendition of _‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’_. Amelia folded her hands in front of herself. “We’re missing quite a party. On the upside, it will go one for a bit, so we’ve got time.”

“Time for what?” On her right side, Fatso floated with nervous agitation. “Is _anyone_ going to explain what’s going on? Because I’d _love_ to know.” 

“Yeah.” On her left, Stinkie echoed. “What the hell is going on here?”

Amelia flicked her hand and a wrought-iron and wooden bench appeared on the hillside. She sat herself down carefully. “Would anyone care to sit?”

Stretch rolled his eyes. “Oh you’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

“Patience, Stephen.”

“ _Stop calling me that_.” 

She gave a shrug, draping one arm over the back of the bench. “You know, you really should sit down-”

“ _Jesus_! You’re as bad as your husband, you know that? The two of you can never just get to the point.” He rounded on her, fire in his eyes. “Are you gonna tell us what the fuck is going on? Or can I just grab my nephew and leave already?”

Amelia turned her eyes to the moon.

Stretch’s eye twitched. “Right.” He threw up his hands. “C’mon boys. Let’s grab the kid and-”

“You can’t do that, Stephen.” 

He turned back, glaring. “Oh. Finally. She speaks.” He crossed his arms. “And who says I can’t.” 

Amelia stirred her tea, steady eyes watching him. “I do. And he does. You _agreed_ to the rules that he set. Which means you either follow them or leave.”

“And since when has _that_ mattered.”

“Since he came here, I suppose.” 

Fatso looked around again with the same, fervent confusion. “So what’re we supposed to do? We can’t just follow ‘im around forever watching these...these whatever-they-are.”

Her eyes sparkled, like she’d been waiting for the right moment to draw her cards. “Something doesn’t sit right about this place...does it?”

“ _No_ ,” Stretch’s grip on his own arms tightened. “It _don’t._ ”

“Why?” she asked. “If we strolled around to the backyard, we’d find a boy riding atop his father’s shoulders, waiting for the fireworks to start. Isn’t that lovely? Isn’t that _how it should be?_ ”

At that moment, the first firework erupted in the sky, vibrant red lighting up the hill. The eldest ghost glanced up, winced again with another muttered expletive, and turned away, hand at his temple.

Amelia straightened up in her seat. “It’s _not_. Her eyes bored into his back. “Is it?”

Fatso gaped at her. “You- you know what’s wrong.”

“I do. And so do _you_.” Another eruption in the sky and they were bathed in blue light. “Don’t you?”

Stinkie was looking from the woman, to each brother (one stunned, one still writhing) and back again. “Ok, seriously, what the hell is happenin’ with you two?”

Stretch shook his head, opened his eyes just as a yellow firework crackled overhead. 

And then, so suddenly, beneath the light-

He squinted. 

Down on the driveway a horse-drawn carriage was moving towards the gate, trailed by a small figure. The carriage stopped and the firework’s light faded, plunging the driveway back into darkness. His head throbbed. His stomach churned and he would’ve emptied its contents into the grass if it had any contents to empty. Instead he sank to his knees, dry-heaving.

“Stretch, what the fuck?” came Stinkie’s voice floating over his shoulder.

Panting, gutted, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “S’this fuckin’ place.” His voice was ragged as he pushed himself back up off the ground. “And _her_.” 

Amelia, for her part, looked unperturbed at the scene. “What _exactly_ do you think I’ve done, Stephen?”

“For the last fuckin’ time, it’s _STRETCH!_ ” In an instant he was in her face, practically spitting venom.

She didn’t flinch. “Not here. Not now. Here and now you were Stephen. And what _Stephen_ knows is why you feel like this.”

“I don’t give a _shit_ about whatever _Stephen_ knows.” He shut his eyes tight to try and sway off the nausea again. There was a weight against his chest, pressing into his shoulders and around his back, like too tight arms squeezing and he scrubbed at them, wishing he had nails to tear the feeling away. He sank to the ground again, gagging. 

Franklin’s hands were shaking, and he flexed his fingers. “Stretch is right. We shouldn’t be here. This place is breaking us down.”

Stinkie looked between them wide eyed, staring down at himself for a moment, almost expecting to double over in the next moment. Nothing happened. 

“We gotta get out’a here,” Stretch growled, floating up as well as he could. The feeling around him wasn’t leaving. It only tightened, and around him, for a moment, the smell of the sea air was replaced with milk soap and syrup. He swallowed to keep from wretching again, scrubbing at his nose to try and clear the smell away. It clung as tight as the weight. “We gotta go in there, grab the brat, and _get out_.”

“I don’t think you’re understanding me, Ste-”

“Say it again,” he snarled up at her. “I fuckin’ _dare_ you.”

She tilted her head up. “This place isn’t destroying you.”

“Like hell it isn’t.” He flinched, gasping, when the weight moved tighter around him. 

She watched the writhing man patiently. “He’s telling you something. And you’re refusing to listen.” 

“ _Not interested_.”

“What you feel and know is what _he_ feels and knows-”

“ _An’ I said_ -”

“And what he _knows_ ,” she continued, dropping lower to the ground until their faces nearly touched, “ _that’s_ your best chance at getting Casper home.” 

Stretch went still. His hands clenched on the grass, blades and dirt crunching between his fingers. 

Amelia rose to her feet again, looking over the ghosts. “His memories are the key to all of this. If his memories are wrong… _someone_ should tell him.” She fixed her gaze on the ghost at her feet. “Before it’s too late.”

Stinkie was at her side, still looking between his two brothers. “What’s that mean… _before it’s too late_.”

Amelia turned, looking back at the house. “Like I said before, this place is a stopping point. It was created to help the people within it decide-”

“ _Decide what_ ,” Stretch ground out, bent over in the grass, eyes squeezed tight. 

“Where they’d like to go. Back to where they came from, or forward.

Fatso, still staring at his shaking hands, finally looked up, face draining. “ _Hold on_ . _Forward_. You can’t actually mean-”

“I do, Franklin.” She nodded. “I mean crossing over.”

A cacophony of fireworks exploded overhead. The whole world seemed to rumble as a kaleidoscope of colors rained down on the house, the grounds, the souls on the bluffs. When they quieted, they took every noise with them. The music was gone. The crickets were gone. Everything stood still.

Amelia raised her head.

“When I brought Casper here, I made a deal with him. He was allowed to choose on his own which direction he went, but he had to watch his memories first to help him decide.” She lifted her head, watching the three horrified ghosts - one on the ground, one shivering, another frozen - in front of her. 

“He’s _eleven_ ,” Fatso choked. “He’s _eleven_ , and you want him to choose _that_.”

“I do.”

“ _You can’t_ -”

“I think you’ll find that I can. And I will.” 

Stretch tried to rise again, body quaking. “ _But those memories_ ,” he ground out, voice like broken glass, “ _they ain’t real_.”

Amelia’s eyes sparkled. “Well that is a problem, isn’t it?” 

Stinkie scrubbed his face, head shaking. “I don’t know what the _hell_ is goin’ on, but if the answer is to get him his _real memories_ then can’t we just do _that_.”

“Now _that’s_ an idea.” Amelia smiled at him. 

“They’re already rememberin’,” Stinkie said, pointing at his brothers a little desperately. “Maybe… maybe if we take some time here…? Figure it all out-”

“We can do that!” Fatso piped up quickly. “A day or two- if we just _adjust_ \- keep Short Sheet with us _here_ -”

“Except,” Amelia said, “you don’t _have_ a day or two.”

Stinkie blinked, going still beside his brother. “... why?”

“Because, Samuel, this place is a stopping point. It works by the same logic as a station. You only get so long before the train arrives, and when it does, you either get on or you don’t. At that point, either Casper will decide which direction, or this place will decide for him. And if it _does_ decide for him, there’s only one option.”

Stinkie sucked in a breath. “Crossin’.”

Stretch bent over again, eyes closed tight. “ _You can’t…_ ” he wheezed. “ _You can’t… fuckin’... do this_.”

“The wheels are in motion already, Stephen. There’s nothing we can do to stop it.”

“ _He’s eleven_ ,” Fatso said again, louder. “He can’t- you’re asking him to _choose_ between-”

“I wouldn’t have brought him here if I didn’t think he was capable of deciding, Franklin. He’s a strong child. He’s _had_ to be, for all he’s endured in that house. With you.” 

He shrank back, eyes shining, and then winced again. “Damn it.” He rubbed his temple, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “You’ll let us try. Right? Ta fix this?”

“I wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise.”

He nodded, decision made. Clenching his fists, he looked over his brothers and back towards her. “What do we need ta’ do?”

Amelia drew in a breath. “Casper isn’t going to remember anything on his own. His memories of this place are set in what he believes to be true. If someone was able to show him _otherwise_ , then perhaps that would change.”

“And… you think _we_ can…?”

“If you’re willing to, yes.” 

“ _How_ ? We don’t _remember_.”

“Stretch, Fatso, and Stinkie might not remember what happened here, but Stephen, Franklin, and Samuel do. They’ve been locked up here in this place for a long time, waiting. And if you’re willing to listen, they’ll tell you.”

Amelia turned towards the house full of memories. Above it, another firework burst. The sound of laughter drifted from the back of the house. 

And then, joining it, was the sound. A soft, angry, scoff. Stretch was looking up again, shoulders hunched. “And you think he’ll listen. Ta’ _us_ ? You think we can just walk in there and say, _hey kid, your memories ain’t worth shit_ . You think _that’s_ gonna get this kid ta’ listen?”

“I think there’s more eloquent ways to say it.”

“ _Or_ ,” he snarled, “we could go in there an’ grab him, an- _fuck_!” Another wave of something rolled over him, and he folded again. 

She watched him cooly. “That isn’t going to work here, Stephen. I’ve given you your solution. Take it, or go.” She looked over them again. Another firework burst, illuminating their faces. Pained and horrified and scared. 

“Let me make something very clear, gentleman. What Casper remembers is what he _wants_ to remember. These memories are real to him, because it projects what he wants. But it isn’t what he _needs_.. These are his creations, and they’re doing nothing more than protecting him. He’s a child. And children will always hide away from what might hurt them. The job of adults, as hard as it can be, is to show them that hurt.”

Stinkie swallowed. “What kind of hurt.”

Another firework cracked behind them. A small figure ran just in view, an older one chasing after him laughing. They ducked away again, and the moment quieted. 

The house, facing the bluffs, watched the group of ghosts silently. 

Stretch, from his place below, glared up at it. 

Amelia stepped forward. “This house holds a truth that is nothing short of a tragedy. One of loss, and hurt, and fear.” 

She took a breath, looking sadly up at the house. The windows watched her back. The smoky dregs of fireworks drifted behind it. 

“But,” she continued, “it’s also the story of a boy who loved his father very, very much. And a father who loved him more than anything in return. And _that_ will be the key to Casper’s decision. A father. And a son.” 

“That’s what started this whole mess,” Fatso said, looking down at his eldest brother. “The kid wantin’ to know his Pa.” 

She didn’t answer, and instead turned to look at Stretch, who glared back as well as he could. “A word of advice, Stephen. The truth hurts everyone, sometimes. But hurt can be necessary. Memories are like wounds. They sting. They scar. But they open what needs to be opened. And you can’t always throw what hurts you into the fire. Because those pictures did hurt you, didn’t they.”

“Stretch…” Fatso said, slowly, watching his silent brother. “What’s she talkin’ about?”

Amelia ignored him, gaze set on the ghost below. “And as much as you deny it, I think you know that whatevers through that door is going to hurt even more.” His glare hardened. “It didn’t work there. It won’t work here. So I suggest you either face it, or go.” 

A snarled, “ _Fuck you_ ,” was the most he could manage. 

“Open the wounds, _Stephen_ ,” she said, the name like a blade. “It’ll hurt. But if treated and cared for the right way, it will _heal_.” 

Stretch said nothing.

One last firework popped overhead. 

“We ain’t got much time,” Fatso said, moving towards the house. 

“You think we can do this?” Stinkie wrung his hands, watching his younger brother gesture them on. 

“Don’t got much choice.” He paused in the lawn, turning. “Stretch. You comin’?” 

Amelia offered a hand to Stretch. He ignored it, rising on his own. His arms quaked, and he closed his fists to keep them steady. 

“Let’s just get this over with.” 

And he followed his brothers towards the ever watching windows of Whipstaff manor. 

* * *

The manor was the same as they’d left it; empty and waiting and too-perfect, and their presence felt more like a disruption than anything else.

And Casper must have felt it. Because it wasn’t a few seconds before the little ghost was floating at the top of the foyer steps, watching them cautiously. 

“... you’re still here?”

“I was explaining the deal that we made,” Amelia told him, moving to the front of the group, craning her neck up to look at the ghost patiently. “And about the rules. And what happens at the end.”

His shoulders squared, and he did his best to hide the tremble in his hands by squeezing them tight to his sides. 

They saw anyway. 

“They can _go_. I already decided.”

“ _Hold on_ -” Stinkie began, frantically, but Amelia held out a hand, and he pulled back. 

“We had a deal, Casper. Remember? You have to watch _everything_.”

“And I _am_.”

“Of course you are,” she said, gently. “But you’re not the only one with memories here.”

Something like anger sparked in Casper’s eyes. “You said I only had a few hours-!”

“That’s true.”

“And I want to use it seeing my _dad_.”

She smiled again. “If you go through with your decision, you’ll have an eternity with him. A few moments here won’t change that.”

Stretch whipped his head towards her, ready to bark something her way. She shot him a quicker look, and he bit his tongue. 

“Casper,” she began again.

“I don’t _want_ to,” the kid snapped, arms crossed. “This is my space _for once_ . Which means that _for once_ , no one can make me do anything I don’t want to.” 

Fatso floated forward, hands out, palms up. “You’re right, kid, _you_ make the rules here. S’why we’re _askin’_ , not tellin’. Amelia says it's important to see _everythin’._ An’ I think I might have somethin’ to show ya.”

Casper backed away, arms crossing. His brows pinched. “You’re trying to make me change my mind. You _won’t_.”

“Then there’s no harm in seein’...right?”

“S’not like these memories are real anyw-”

“ _Stretch!_ ”

Casper jumped back at the same time Stretch did when Fatso barked out the name, twisting fast to face his eldest. 

There was silence. Stretch, for once, didn’t dare break it, watching his youngest brother with wide eyes.

Fatso turned around again, palms out. “Casper,” he said. “ _Please_?”

He may as well have been speaking in tongues for the look the little ghost gave him.

“Please?” he said again, with a softness they’d never heard before. 

Casper turned dinner-plate eyes to Amelia, who nodded. He still looked unsure, but he nodded too. “Fine. Just _one._ ”

The relief that washed over the big ghost’s face was palpable. It only grew when the little ghost drifted slowly down from his perch on the balcony to float a distance away from them on the foyer floor. 

“Right. Okay. How’s this thing work?” Fatso asked. 

“Think of a feeling. A moment.. You call up something you’d like to see.” Amelia explained. “What is it _you_ want to see, Franklin?” 

“Not, uh. Not sure.” He turned towards Casper, doing his best to smile. “You got anything of me in here? Help an Uncle out?”

“ _No_ ,” said the child, curtly. “I don’t.” 

“Right.”

Amelia surprised him by touching his elbow. “Let _Franklin_ take over.”

“... how?”

“You’ve been getting feelings since you got here. If you were going to put a picture to those feelings, what would it show you?” 

He folded his arms, brow furrowed, closing his eyes.

Behind them, Stretch mumbled something about a _waste of time._

And a man appeared in the center of the room.

“Holy shit!” Stinkie whispered. “ _Holy shit, Fatso!_ That’s-!”

The man was broadly built, stout even, with dark hair and a mustache to match. The corners of his eyes crinkled as something unseen to them caught his attention and a wide smile filled his face. “Who’s got a hug for Uncle Franklin?” he asked, dropping to one knee.

Casper gaped as he heard his own voice call from across the room.

“ME!” The memory of the boy appeared mid-run, hurtling himself into waiting arms.

The man - Fatso - Franklin - scooped the child up with a booming, familiar laugh. The boy clung tightly, wrapping all four limbs around as far as they could reach.

The little ghost was so pale he was practically invisible, shaking his head furiously. “No,” he muttered. “No no no no no _no!_ ”

Fatso had opened his eyes, which were shining again. “I can...I can _feel_ ‘im,” he gasped shakily, holding out his own, empty arms. “Christ, he’s so _light._ ”

“How-” Stinkie strained, reaching out towards the memory. “ _How’d you do that_?” 

“I don’t know!” he whispered back, arms still out. He frowned down at them. “Cas… you’re too _little_ -” he began, before shaking his head quickly, looking towards the ghost of his nephew, almost reminding himself that he was there. “What-”

“You’re remembering,” Amelia told him. “ _Franklin_ is remembering.” 

He grinned, looking at his nephew. “Casper- you seein’ this!”

Casper was shaking, moving away from the scene. “ _This isn’t real_.”

“What are ya- _course_ it’s real! Cas, _look_!”

“ _No_ ,” the boy began. But some of the fight was leaving him. 

And Fatso took the opportunity. 

Drifting closer, he reached out, as if to touch the little ghost, but pulled his hand away. “Come on. Can’t be _that_ bad. Might be nice to know that we were around sometimes.” 

“I don’t…” his nephew’s jaw ticked, eyes misting. “ _No_ . It can’t- _no_.”

Fatso pointed towards the scene still playing. The little boy was using his broad Uncle as a glorified jungle gym, hanging off his arm. “Cas… they’re _happy_ . And… and maybe there are _more_ memories we can look at like this one.” 

Casper hesitated. He peeked up at the memory of the man and the boy. The child was laughing. 

There was something less plastic about it. 

The man’s shirt didn’t look well ironed. The boy’s hair was mussed and tangled in the back, like someone had tried to brush it before he’d slipped away. 

A crease or two here and there. A notch in the framework. A scuff or two. 

A realness. 

He swallowed. “… maybe…?” 

“Yeah?” Fatso looked towards the group. Stinkie was grinning, cautiously hopeful. Stretch…

Stretch was quietly staring. 

Casper opened his mouth to answer. 

“Cas- _per!_ ”

Casper reeled back, breath snapping in fast. “ _No_.”

“Casper,” Fatso quickly tried to redirect, but it was too late.

His nephew was shaking his head, fists pressed hard against his eyes. “ _No_ ,” he whispered. His voice was breaking. Spiderweb cracks spreading through him. “ _Not you. Not you_ -”

The footsteps were nearing. The voice was back, getting louder; “The hell is goin’ on around here?”

Casper kept backing away. Kept shaking his head. The chorus of _not you, not you, not_ ** _you_** played again and again. 

Until someone touched his shoulder. 

He jerked, electfied. In front of him, Fatso had his hand out. His eyes were wide. Afraid. “Short sheet-”

“ _Make it stop_ -”

“Casper, _please_ -”

“ _No_!” 

The memory in front of them vanished. The man, the boy, and the voice, all snapping away. 

“ _These aren’t my memories_ !” Casper was breathing too quickly, chest stuttering up and down, up and down, head wildly shaking back and forth. “ _These can’t be my memories_!”

“Casper!” Stinkie was moving forward, too, hands extended out. “Casper, _take a breath_.” 

“These aren’t _real_!”

“Cas-”

“These aren’t real,” Casper pointed, eyes brimming, at the ghost of his eldest Uncle floating by Amelia, snarling right back at him. “ _They aren’t real,_ _because_ _he’d never be there_.” 

Fatso tried to touch the kid’s shoulder again, looking more worried than anything else, but Casper skirted back quickly. Every breath was a wheeze. A sharp noise pulled painfully deep. “ _I want you to go_.”

“ _Wait_ ,” Stinkie said, quickly. “ _Wait_ , Casper. Just… just calm down-”

“I want you to _leave_ !” The boy’s back was against the stairwell now, pressing hard. His voice was getting louder and louder, pitched and frantic. “ _I don’t want you here, anymore!_ ” 

“Casper!”

“ _I want to forget you!_ ”

“ _That’s enough!_ ” There was a sweep of a noise, and Stretch had left Amelia’s side, approaching the little ghost. “Enough games. We’re _done_. And you’re comin’ with us!”

“ _Stretch_ ,” Fatso called out, reaching for his brother. “Stretch, _stop_!”

Stretch’s hand was an inch from the boy’s arm when-

“ _GET OUT!!_ ”

-a shockwave knocked them all back.

White light filled the space, blinding everyone.

And Amelia’s voice, ringing in their ears;

_You broke the rules._

* * *

Harvey and Kat were waiting together in the library when the universe ripped open. 

There was a pop. A flare. The smell of tobacco and allspice and burnt paper. 

Kat shrieked, her father lunging to wind his arms around her, pulling her behind him where she hid, tucking the little orb to her chest. 

And then, as quick as the noise and the light had come, they vanished. 

Kat blinked, peering around her father at the three ghosts in the room. 

Fatso’s arm was extended. Stinkie beside him, mid shout. 

And Stretch-

His fist was closed out in front of him, holding something that wasn’t there. 

“Boys…?” Harvey stood, legs wobbling. “You’re back-”

Kat stumbled out from behind him, orb still in her hand. She looked down at it and then back up at them, counting manically. 

_One, two, three_

_One, two, three_

_One, two, three_

The little orb in her hands pulsed in time as she realized the number missing.

“ _Where’s Casper_ ,” Kat choked. 

There was a moment of silence as the humans watched the ghosts unfurl themselves, their expressions moving from fear to horror. 

“ _Stretch_ .” Fatso was the first to speak, and it trembled off the library walls. “ _What did you do?_ ” 

* * *

Casper peeled open his eyes. 

The place where his Uncle Stretch had been, moments away from grabbing him, was empty. 

And his Uncle Fatso and Stinkie were gone, too. 

The woman in red stood just a few feet away. Light was fading from her palms.

“ _What happened_ ,” he whispered. 

“They broke the rules,” she said, easily. “He was interrupting a memory. And you asked them to leave. So.” She gestured to the empty room. “They left.” 

His shoulders slumped, and he drew in a deep breath, relaxing. He nearly felt guilty for the small spark of relief and joy at the idea that they were nowhere to be found. “So… they’re really gone?” 

“Yes,” she said. “Back to Whipstaff. The _real_ Whipstaff.”

“And they can’t come back here?” He looked around, almost expecting his Uncle Stretch to pop up again and snatch him away, back to a life of burning pictures and quiet, sad nights. 

He never appeared. 

“No,” she said. “They can’t come back here. Not on their own.” His eyes flickered, and she held up her hands. “And I won’t be bringing them back. It’s a one way pass here. They abused it.”

He nodded, letting out a heavy breath. 

Amelia watched him, carefully. “You’re happy about that.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

She tilted her head. “Even though your Uncle Franklin was showing you a memory before he left?”

“Uncle _Fatso_ ,” he corrected. “And I told you! I don’t _want_ to see fake memories.”

Her brow rose. “Really?”

“ _Really_ . I only have a few hours here. I want to spend them watching what actually happened.” He crossed his arms. “I want to spend them watching my _dad_.”

“You did say that.”

“And I have him here,” Casper said. “I can _forget_ them, and I can watch my _dad_.”

She nodded, slowly, watching him with a steady gaze that had him squirming. 

“You want your real memories?”

Casper’s brow furrowed. “That’s what I just said.”

“I know. But I need you to be clear.” Amelia stepped closer, striding across the room, until she stood where his Uncle Stretch had been just moments before. She held his gaze. “You want your _real_ memories.” 

“ _Yes_ ,” he snapped. 

“The true, real, _absolute_ memories?”

“What you were showing me before! My dad and mom and…” He looked around, almost expecting them to appear like they had before. 

They didn’t. 

He concentrated harder. It was what he’d been doing since she brought him there. 

_Focus your feelings,_ she’d told him. _Put a picture to those feelings, and it will show you what you want to see_.

He tried again. Casper closed his eyes tight and focused hard on the grinning man, the doting wife, and the child between them. 

Nothing. 

He opened his eyes, staring up at Amelia. “What’s going on?” 

Around them, the air had gone still. Like the house itself was holding its breath. 

Waiting. 

Watching. 

“Casper, I need to make something very clear right now.” Amelia caught his attention, and he looked away from the empty, waiting house. “If you want your real memories, then I’ll give them to you. _All_ of them.”

He went to answer, but she stopped him with a raised hand. 

“But that means you have to watch it _all_ . Before you can decide, you have to watch it _all_. No matter what you see, or hear, or feel. You watch it all.”

She extended the same hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Casper thought of the happy father. The doting wife. The boy jumping between them. 

He thought about the fireworks, and chasing his father around the yard. 

Of running up the stairs after bikes had fallen, and his father’s arms tight around him. 

Of his father’s face, unmarred by flames. 

He reached out and took her hand. “Deal.” 

And then the world fell from beneath him. 

It spun. Swept. Screamed. 

And then, just like before, it stopped. 

Except…

Except it was different. 

Casper, clinging to Amelia’s red dress, looked around the room where they’d landed. The same room as before. 

But oh so different. 

The bright colors had seeped away to become muted and dull. 

The candles around them flickered dimly. 

And there was quiet. 

Heavy, lasting quiet. 

Casper slowly released his hands from the dress, turning about, looking at the dim, glow. The sounds of laughter were gone, and in their place was the soft murmur of the staff; cooks, maids, doctors. They moved through like specters around a small figure. 

“Is that…” Casper’s voice fell short. His hand clutched his aching chest. His head was splitting. 

Amelia didn’t answer. She only watched beside him. 

In the center of the room, ignored by everyone who passed, was a small boy. He held a train between his hands, flicking the wheels.

He sat on the steps, watching everyone pass him without a glance his way. 

And he sat alone. 

“This… this can’t be…”

“It is.”

Casper turned fast towards the woman, and then back to the lonely boy on the steps.

Couldn't take his eyes away. 

“This, Casper… _This_ was what it was like.”


	6. Hidden and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio returns to Whipstaff, Casper attends a funeral, Kat makes a promise, and the first box is opened.

Kat Harvey sat, glued to the seat of the chaise lounge with the memory of her best friend in her hands, watching wide-eyed as two of the remaining ghosts in the house faced off.

“ _You couldn’t follow one rule_ -”

“Like you were doin’ _so_ well!”

“Boys!” Harvey stood a few feet away, hands extended. “Boys, _what happened_ -”

“What _happened_ ?” Fatso hissed. He waved his arms towards Stretch, who was snarling across from them on the opposite side of the hearth. “ _You_ wanna explain it, Stretch?”

The taller ghost flinched and between them the fireplace roared to life. “Shouldn’t hafta explain-”

“You really want ‘em to hear _my_ take?”

“Gentleman, I really don’t think this is productive-” Harvey went unheard.

“Please, like I care-”

“You _should!_ ” The younger brother was bellowing now, floating closer, getting in the elder’s face. “For once in your afterlife, you should be carin’ a helluva lot!”

“You threatenin’ me??”

“ _Stop it!_ ” 

Harvey’s attempts floundered when another voice pushed through the chaos, and a new figure stood between the two brothers. 

“ _Both of you_ ,” Stinkie snarled. “We ain’t gettin’ anywhere doin’ this! You’re wastin’ time!”

“ _Fatso’s the one who_ -”

“ _Zip it_ ,” his younger brother snapped. 

Stretch opened his mouth, but closed it with a _click_ of his teeth. He glared at Fatso. Fatso glared back. 

For the time, though, they at least stayed quiet. 

“Right,” the ghost said, looking between them two of them. “Fatso, go sit over there. Stretch, go to the desk. You’re makin’ things worse fightin’.”

“Who the hell put you in-”

“ _Now_ , Stretch.”

The tallest ghost bared his teeth, but spun and flew to Harvey’s desk, plunking himself dramatically into the chair.

Kat approached the middle brother, orb still in hand. Her hands shook.

( _One, two, three_ )

( _One, two, three_ )

( _One, two, three_ )

“Where’s Casper?”

He rubbed his face, looking back at his two brothers on opposite ends of the room. “I’m not really sure, kid.”

Her eyes were welling, and she quickly swiped at them with her sleeve. “What does that _mean_ ?"

“Means that he’s safe. For now.”

Kat drew in breaths, counting the spirits in front of her. The one missing. 

( _One, two, three_ )

( _One, two, three_ )

( _One, two, three_ )

“Amelia, your ma, took us to him. But I’m not sure where _it_ was." Stinkie twisted his fingers, frustration thick with panic lying just beneath. “I thought that she was leadin' us to one’a them pearly gates or somethin’. But _no_. She brings us there, an’ it was _Whipstaff_.”

“Casper’s idea of Whipstaff.” Fatso’s voice broke through. Stinkie turned, worried for a moment, but his brother’s voice didn’t carry any ire. Just exhaustion and worry. “Amelia said that he made himself a place to feel safe. Somethin’ important to him. So he made himself a Whipstaff.” He breathed in deep. Let it out slow. “And he used it to watch memories. Of J.T.”

Kat stepped forward, the beginnings of a grin forming. “So… so he did it! He found his dad!”

“Yeah. But…” Fatso shook his head. “But no.” He stared at his hands, flexing them, remembering something faint. “It wasn’t his _dad_ . It was… memories of his dad.” He closed his eyes, recalling what they’d seen as best as he could. “It was like a movie, 'cept they looked real and right there, in front of you. Like you could reach out an’ grab ‘em. We got there, and the place looked like Whipstaff, only it was filled with these _projections_ . These… these people. Like ghosts, only they couldn’t see us. Real, but not real.”

“Memories,” Stinkie said again. “Just a bunch of memories playing over an’ over like they was on a TV screen. And the kid was the one holdin’ the remote.”

Kat swallowed doing her best to tamp down the myriad of emotions rising and winding up her spine. “But he _did_ see his dad.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “And his ma'. And him, but alive.”

She looked down at the little orb pulsing in her hand. “He’s probably happy.”

“He was.” He paused, mulling over the words. “But…"

She looked up. " _But_?"

"It wasn’t exactly _right_. We got there, and I knew. _We_ knew. Somethin’ was wrong.”

“But he'd been trying to get more memories of his _dad_ -”

"Yeah, but-"

"He saw his _dad_ ," she said, pulling the orb closer. "That's what he wanted!"

“Wasn’t just us sayin’ it, Kat,” Fatso said, scrubbing his face. “Your ma knew, too.”

Kat felt her throat tighten. Around the little orb, her fingers did the same. It pulsed along with her heartbeat; warm and fragile. “You're lying.” 

“Kat-” Her father reached over and touched her elbow. 

“He’s been looking for his dad!”

“Kat, honey-”

“You can’t say those things aren’t real because we _found them_ ! You-” she pointed at Stretch, anger coming back twofold. “You _burned_ them! You took them, and you burned them. You can’t say they’re not _real_!”

“Sure we can,” came the growled reply from the desk.

“ _Stretch._ ” Stinkie fixed him with a hard stare.

The eldest brother picked up a mini donut and bit down hard.

“Dad, he can’t just-”

"I'm sure there's an explanation."Harvey rubbed her back, turned to look at Stinkie. “Wait... _Amelia_ said it wasn’t right?”

Stinkie nodded. "Yeah. She said that what the kid was rememberin’ was what he _wanted_ , but it didn't make it the truth. And then Fatso-” He spun back to his younger brother.

“I remembered somethin’,” Fatso said, drawing closer. “Made it show up just like the kid could. Another one’a them projections.”

James raised his eyebrows. “What was it?”

“Just me an’ the kid, playin’ together.” Fatso shrugged, twisting his fingers. “I could feel ‘im. Like he was in my arms.” He held out his own, looking down at them. “Still sort’a feel him. And jeez, the kid was so _small_.” He shook them out, frowning. 

“Fascinating.”

Kat rubbed her brow. It was beginning to feel like she was sinking farther and farther down.

Harvey adjusted his glasses. "How'd you end up coming back?" 

Stinkie shifted. He swallowed. “This place… The _Not Whipstaff_ -”

“Place Between,” his younger brother offered. 

“-it worked by bulbheads rules. And Amelia said we had ta’ follow them all the moment we got there.”

Harvey nodded, focus sharp. “He made himself an authority.” 

“Yeah, well, whatever he did, we followed those rules up until the end. When _someone_ decided it wasn’t worth it and decided to interrupt a memory.”

Stretch glared over the desk. “That ain’t how it happened. Memory was all fake anyways.”

“You really wanna fight about this?”

“The kid was already kickin’ us, so don’t put that shit on me.” He glared over at Harvey. "Didn't help that your little _wife_ _y_ had it out for me. Fuckin' couldn't stand me."

“Don't put any of this on _her._ You were the reason we got kicked out,” Fatso snarled. “Kid heard _your voice_ in _my memory_. I don’t even know how you got there!”

Stretch leaned forward, elbows _thunking_ against the wood. “Kid didn’t have enough of’a spine ta’ put up with the truth.”

“He was scared. Of _you_.”

Harvey stepped forward, sensing another fight brewing, but Kat beat him to it with a question of her own. “Why would Mom want you to show him that? If there was a chance you’d get kicked out, why even show it?”

“She said it was important,” Fatso answered. “Who we were, what happened when we were alive; those were our only shots at gettin’ the kid back.” His expression darkened and he glared over at the desk. “Until _someone_ broke the rules and got us booted before we could even try!”

Stretch opened his mouth, but Stinkie put his body between them again. “Whatever’s happenin’ in there now, we got work to do out here.” 

“Which we _can’t do_.” Fatso’s fists were tightening, jaw twitching. “Because we don’t got nothin’.”

“We don’t _know that_ ,” said Stinkie. “We weren’t the ones lookin’ in the first place.” He turned towards Kat with a sort of desperation she’d never seen before. “What we lost the other night-"

"What he _burned_ , you mean?"

Stretch scoffed. 

"-that wasn’t _all_ there was? Right?”

The teen pursed her lips, looked down at the orb in her hand, still flickering.

“Bucket?” James rubbed her back again.

“I…” She thought about the boxes, hidden beneath the desk beside the letters carved deep. “I have something.”

“ _What_?” Stinkie drifted. 

“But I don’t- I don’t _know_.”

Fatso, from his corner of the room, cast her a pleading look. “It might be our only chance to get bulbhead back. If you have something- Kat. _Please_?” 

Kat thought about Casper. 

About her mother. 

About the two ghosts asking. 

She looked over at Stretch, who was glowering at the scene in front of him. 

She raised her chin, jaw set. “ _He_ doesn’t get to touch them,” she said, pointing towards the desk.

Stretch was silent, but his dark scowl said enough.

“Deal,” Stinkie said.

“Fine.” She moved, took a few steps towards the door, and then turned back, holding out the orb to Fatso. “Don’t drop him, okay?”

He took it carefully from her. nodding, ignoring the curious leers of his brothers, cupping his hands around the little orb between his fingers. As she turned again to leave, she could hear him whisper, “Hey, Cas…” as quietly as his booming voice would allow. 

* * *

Kat took a moment in the dark office on her own to breathe. The quiet was settling, and it finally gave her a chance to catch up on some of her thoughts. 

Like how Casper's memories may have not been what he thought they were.

And how her mother might have known. 

" _Shit_ ," she said into the dark of the office. Her eyes were burning, and she pressed the heels of her hands hard against her sockets, waiting to see stars. " _Shit shit shit_." 

There had to be some explanation. Casper had been remembering. She'd been helping him _remember_. Which meant that there was still something there worth exploring. Untrue didn't mean lies. A foggy window still had something behind it. It was just about clearing away the mist. 

Her mother knew what she was doing. She had a reason. She'd have to trust it. 

For now.

She grabbed the boxes from under the desk, touching the etched names beneath. "I promised," she mumbled. "I promised that I would help your son, and I _will_ ," she said again. "I'll figure this out. No matter what." 

* * *

She returned to a silent room. 

Kat almost expected to find chaos in her wake, but Stinkie, talking quietly with Harvey, had a strong hold on the room. Stretch stayed by the desk, shifting a line of sugar that he’d poured out back and forth, glaring at the desktop. Fatso sat in one of the chairs, Casper held carefully between his hands.

And her arrival was met with curious, exhausted stares. 

She landed the box in the middle of the floor with a graceless _THUD_. 

‘CASPER’S UNCLES’ was scrawled in bold black ink. 

It's presence could have sent a shockwave through the library. 

“Kid…” Fatso was nearing them, still holding Casper. The light from his nephew’s orb cast a glow beneath his face. “How did you… _Kid_.” 

Stinkie flew just beside her. “Where’s this been?” he managed to choke out past his shock.

“In the attic,” she said. “I found them the other day. After…” She looked over towards Stretch, who was watching the scene, jaw tense. “Just after,” she finished. “It was up there with another.”

The middle brother blinked up at her from the box. “ _Another_.”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “There were two. I hid them. Um- Can you get a pair of scissors, Dad?”

James nodded, pulling a swiss army knife from his pocket. “What exactly are we looking at here, honey?”

“Not a hundred percent sure.” She brushed her hair behind her ears. “I didn’t open it, yet.”

“Wait,” Fatso shook his head. “Go back. What do you mean you _hid_ them?” 

“To keep them safe,” she explained. “So I put them away. In J.T.’s office.”

Fatso squinted at her. “J.T.s _what_ …?”

She didn’t give him a chance to speak, standing back up, brushing off her knees. “I’ll go grab the other one.”

Stinkie looked a little ill. “You’re telling me this was up there the whole _time_?” His eyes drifted up towards the ceiling, squinting. 

“No one ever thought to look,” she muttered on her way back out the door.

“ _Casper’s Uncle’s_ …” Fatso read the side out loud. His hands were shaking. “This has been up there. This whole time it’s just been…”

“The house is big,” James pointed out. He snipped the twine. It slipped to the floor. “Lots of places to hide things. And kids. You know how they are.” He dropped the army knife back into his pocket. Gingerly, he lifted the lid. “They can find a needle in a haystack and make it seem like no big deal.”

“Yeah. But… But…” Stinkie traced the bold lettering on the side, painted on in dark ink. “J.T. must have packed them-”

“No.” Kat was back, bringing another box with her. “It wasn’t. It was someone who worked here, I think? There was a letter at the top. They were worried about important things being sold off, so they labeled everything carefully.”

And she dropped the second box to the floor, turning it around. “See?”

Stinkie jerked back at the same time as Fatso moved forward. 

_CASPER’S FATHER_ was written across the side in the same dark lettering. 

“ _Holy shit_ , Kat.” Fatso switched Casper to one hand, coming closer to the box. He reached out as if to touch the box. 

She pulled it away and towards her, fast. “No.”

“Kat…”

“This is _Casper’s,_ ” she said. “I’m just bringing it down here to help him, for when he gets back.”

“But Kat-” Stinkie began. She cast him a dark look and he cut himself short. 

“It’s _Casper’s_ ,” she said again. “For when he gets _back_ . And you don’t touch it.” And then she looked past them. Past her father. Past the desk and the books and the ghost floating beyond them, who was looking back at her with the same, dark ferocity. “ _None_ of you do. But especially not _him_.” 

“Oooh,” Stretch crooned. “Gettin’ the claws out, Kitty Kat?”

She pulled it closer to her chest, fingers tight around it. 

“Okay,” said Fatso, backing away. “But… but what if-”

“We don’t need that one, Fatso.” Stinkie quickly grabbed his younger brother's elbow, pulling him back from the box and the teen who was holding it. “We got ours.”

Fatso glanced back at the box one last time. There was a flicker of guilt in his eyes, and Kat knew (as well as they all did) that he was imagining fires swallowing pictures whole. 

“Right,” said Fatso. “Right. Yeah. That one’s Casper’s.” 

Kat watched him a moment, waiting for something to change. But when they both drifted back towards her father, she nodded, feeling safe enough to leave it alone on the carpet. 

Her father was still at the _UNCLE’S_ box, fishing through the old newspapers that were packed in at the top to keep whatever was inside safe. They all sat around him. Kat fisted at the sleeves of her sweater, swallowing back the anxiety welling up inside her. 

She’d spent many hours imagining what would be inside. 

Treasures. Stories. Mysteries unfolding.

So it was a little underwhelming when her father squinted down through the paper and just said, “Huh.” He blinked into the box, sifting through balled up paper. “I’m not really sure what I’m looking at?” He pushed away, looking up at the two ghosts in front of him. “Anything look familiar?”

Kat peered over at the same time as Stinkie and Fatso did. 

And… 

The excitement and the thrill of finding what she'd expected to be troves of importance dimmed a little as she looked over into a box filled with… stuff. 

It was the only word she could use to describe it. 

“Uh… not sure,” said Stinkie. He poked at a piece of the _stuff_. “You sure this is it, Kat?”

“Yeah. This was it.” 

From behind the desk, Stretch scoffed. 

His brothers twisted to look at him. 

“This ain’t gonna work,” he said. His voice was all salt and ire. “Ya know that, right? That this _ain’t_ gonna work. We got more of a chance of tryin’ ta get _that lady_ back to take us to Casper-”

“There is no way back!"

"There's _always_ a way back."

Fatso looked over at his eldest, eyes narrowed. "There _nothing_ we can do besides _this_. If we can remember what really happened-"

"Sorry to break the news, but Casper ain’t choosin’ _us_ over a fantasy. So there ain't no point in sittin' around doing whatever the hell you're plannin'. What he needs is to be dragged back and taught a lesson about-” 

“ _Stretch_ ,” Stinkie barked. “Shaddup, would ya!”

His mouth clipped closed. 

Fatso, still holding Casper in one hand, picked up a little blue toy train, dropping it back in. “There’s gotta be somethin’ here.”

“You sure this person knew what they was packin’ up?” 

“All I know is that whoever packed it thought everything here was _yours_.”

“Well,” said Fatso. “We gotta find somethin’. We don’t have much of a choice.”

“No,” said Stinkie, turning around to look at Stretch, casting him a long glare. “We _don’t_.”

Fatso repositioned himself, setting the orb in his lap and putting his hand into the box. “S’a big box,” he said. He plucked out an antique spyglass, set it aside. “There’s gotta be _somethin’._ ”

Stinkie joined him. “Well, if anything gives you a headache, lemme know.” He set a compass down next to the spyglass.

“A headache?” Kat asked.

“Happened in the, uh, the Between place,” Fatso explained. He had a piece of paper rolled and tied with string in one hand. “Yer ma said it was Franklin tryin’ ta tell me somethin’.” 

“ _Franklin_ ,” Harvey said, mulling over the name. “Just take it slow.”

“Not sure if we can, Doc.” He picked the knot open, unfurled what looked like a hand-drawn map of the grounds, with a dotted path leading to a ‘X’ at the front fountain. “Cute.” He set it down too.

Kat picked it up. “This is really well-done - a kid didn’t do this. Did one of you?”

“Dunno.” Fatso shrugged, looked at his brother. “You recognize it?”

Stinkie held out a hand, and she gave it to him. He looked it over, squinting at the lines. “For a treasure map somebody sure put a helluva lotta detail int-” He blinked. “Stinking Clover?”

“What?” Kat asked.

“Says ‘ _Peritoma serrulata’_ there.” He held the paper out, pointing to the tiny markings over on the depiction of the hillside. “See? That’s the name for Stinking Clover.” 

“How do you _know_ that?” Fatso asked.

“I’m…" Stinkie paused, blinking. "I don’t know…” 

“Great,” said Stretch, drawing their attention back. “So we learned the name of a flower. That’ll bring him back.” 

They ignored him. Stinkie set the map to the side. “It won’t help us none. We need somethin’ solid.” 

“Yeah yeah.” Fatso dug around some more, picking out a folded paper hat, a few dried flowers, and a fountain pen, setting them to the side. He muttered something about _what the hell did they pack in here_ , before Stinkie finally closed his hand around something of hopeful value. 

He drew it out fast, brandishing it outwards.

It was a news article.

He set it against the carpet, pressing it out and smoothing it down. 

Harvey leaned over to read it, adjusting his glasses. “Huh.” He pulled it towards him, lifting it to read out loud; 

WHITE PLAGUE CLAIMS MCFADDEN WIFE

Emily McFadden, wife of Josiah Thomas McFadden, passed away on September 7th, 1886. She leaves her husband and her 3 year old son, Casper McFadden

Harvey browsed through the rest of the article. “There’s information about the funeral. There’s a picture here, too.” He flipped it over to show them. 

Fatso squinted. His eye widened and he slapped Stinkie’s arm. “That’s-”

“Yeah,” said Stinkie. “Cas’s _Ma_ . Shit. The kid was _three_.” 

Fatso frowned. “In that place, his Ma was there… and he was… he was older-”

“At least four or five,” Stinkie nodded. “Which means-”

“Which means,” said the voice by the desk, “that his memories weren’t worth _shit_ . Which we already _knew_.”

Fatso rose a few inches, moving the orb back to his hand. “ _It means_ ,” he snapped back, voice booming, “that we figured somethin’ _out_.”

“Oh yeah. _That’ll_ get him back.” Stretch leaned over the desk. “Am I still banned over there? Would hate to ruin all this _valuable treasure_.”

“Come over here and I’ll show ya’ what’ll happen!” 

“ _Fatso_ .” Harvey snapped his fingers, getting the ghosts attention. He was still staring at the article. “You _are_ here.” He touched one of the sentences. “ _The funeral was attended by Mr. McFadden’s brothers; Stephen, Samuel, and Franklin McFadden, who traveled from Boston and Chicago respectively for the event._ ”

“So we were _there_ ,” breathed Stinkie. 

“So you were there,” said Harvey, nodding. “No picture, though. Just the one of his mother. Emily.” 

Kat sat back on her knees, plucking through the box. “His mom died, and you were there with him and his dad. I mean… he was your brother, right? So you were probably there to help out for a few days.”

Fatso winced, hissing. 

She jerked her head up just as James reached across the box. “You good?”

“Yeah -” He winced again. 

His brother leaned forward. “Anythin’?”

“Not… sure.” He shook his head. “Something about it- it ain’t _right_.”

“You said that about the place, too,” said Stinkie, digging through the box again. “Keep looking around. Maybe you’ll see something else.”

Kat watched them, her stomach sinking deeper and deeper. 

* * *

The house was dark, the curtains drawn, oil lamp sconces casting dancing shadows on the walls. It wasn’t quiet, though. The foyer, where Amelia stood and Casper floated, was empty, but there were sounds of life from the kitchen (the clatter of pots and pans, the clink of plates and glasses), and from the opposite direction as well - voices. The ghost looked to the woman beside him. “What’s happening?”

Her smile was gone, red lips a thin line. Without a word, she began walking, and he followed. The voices were coming from the parlor, though he hardly recognized it. The room where they now kept the TV and second-hand sofas was ornately decorated, and filled to the brim with adults dressed in black. A handful of staff flitted about on the periphery, replacing near-empty platters of food with full ones, collecting empty glasses, unnoticed by the rest. 

Casper peered around the room, searching for familiar faces. “What’s going on?”

“Surely a ghost can recognize a funeral,” she answered, though her voice held no humor.

His eyes widened. “Who-?”

The question was answered by a voice he recognized - his _own._

“I want Mama.”

In the center of the room, he spotted his father’s face surrounded by others he didn’t know. On the floor, clinging to the well-pressed pant leg, was the same little boy from the stairs. The group of adults made a collective murmur of sympathy and then resumed their conversation.

“Oh, Prague is _lovely_ this time of year. You really _must_ look us up if you decide to-”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” J.T. said with a nod.

Casper grabbed Amelia's arm. "That's my dad," he hissed, grinning. "Amelia!"

"I see."

"That's my dad!"

"It is," she said, nodding. 

The boy at his side tugged again. “Where’s Mama? I want Mama!”

“Enough, Casper,” J.T. snapped, jaw set.

Beside Amelia still, the ghostly Casper's face began to drop. This wasn't right. 

Another man, next to the one from Prague, gestured with the tumbler in his hand. “Your talents are wasted out here in the sticks. Anyone who’s _anyone_ is in Europe now - or at _least_ New York.”

The boy rubbed his nose on the sleeve of his dress coat. When he spoke again, his voice wobbled, broke. “I want Mama. Where did she go?”

“For heaven’s sake.” J.T. glared down at his side, then gave his guests an apologetic smile. “Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?”

They nodded with a chorus of ‘ _of course’_ s’, and the ghost watched his father roughly take the boy’s arm and practically drag him to the far corner of the room, where a middle-aged woman in simpler attire was snuffing out a candle that was about to burn down to nothing. “I think it’s past Casper’s bedtime,” he said sharply, not bothering to address her.

The woman set the snuffer down beside the candlestick, fixed the man with a cool stare. “As it’s nearly nine, I have to say I agree.”

Between them, little wrist clutched in his father’s hand, the boy had begun to cry in earnest. 

J.T. floundered, darted a glance back at the crowd before facing the woman again. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

“Master McFadden, if I may speak frankly-”

“You may _not_ ,” he hissed. He jerked the boy in her direction. The wailing increased. “There are important people in attendance, and I just need... Just take him. Before he makes an even bigger scene.”

“Sir-”

“ _Now_ ,” he barked. He released his hold on the child, who crumpled to the floor, sobbing, and spun on his heel, smoothing back his hair as he returned to his guests.

By the door, the ghost watched, horrified. “He- he can’t just- he _wouldn’t_ -”

The servant woman knelt down, gathered the boy into her arms with soft whispers and coos, while he buried his face in her shoulder. Her eyes followed J.T., but then diverted, found the eyes of another - 

A man in the opposite corner, tall and spindle thin, watched as he leaned against the far wall with a cigarette clenched between his teeth. His eyebrows rose as she caught his attention and he looked from her to J.T. and back again. He scowled, tossed his cigarette on the marble floor and stamped it out with one foot.

The woman waited just a beat longer - hoping for what, Casper didn’t know - before turning away, kissing the blonde head on her shoulder, murmuring to him as she passed by the pair of spirits in the doorway. “Hush now, love. Mama will be waiting for you in your dreams. So let’s get to sleep, all right?”

The ghost watched them go, mouth moving wordlessly.

“Poor thing,” Amelia sighed, hugging herself as she leaned out the door to watch the shadow of the woman and the crying child disappear up the stairs. “Kat was eleven when the accident happened, and even _that_ was too young.”

“This isn’t _right_.” The voice of the ghost at her side was shaking.

“I quite agree. No child should have to-”

“No _no._ ” His voice was firmer when he spoke again. “I mean this- this _so-called_ memory isn’t _right_ . It _can’t_ be.”

“Oh can’t it?” She turned a curious gaze his way.

“No,” he said again, fists clenched at his sides. “You’re trying to trick me into going back.”

“I promise I’m not.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You’re entitled to that.”

He whipped around, found his father’s face in the crowd again. “This _has_ to be fake. This is supposed to be my mother’s funeral. Who smiles like that when someone they love just died?”

Amelia followed his gaze, brow creased. “I’ve been asking myself the same question.”

“Because it’s not _him_ ,” he said. “I know it’s not. I _remember_ him. And he was _never_ like, like _this._ ”

“And yet.”

“You’re telling me he didn’t care!”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Amelia said, patiently. “I’m showing you-”

“That he _didn’t care_.”

She raised a brow. “Whatever assumptions you make are up to you. But you agreed-”

“I _agreed_ to see things that are real.”

“And these aren’t?”

“ _No._ ” His fists were balled at his sides, and he turned away from the man conducting business at a funeral. The room darkened around them. 

“How about something different then?” She offered him her hand, but he refused to take it, floating on his own out of the room.

* * *

There was something a little defeating about the idea of a box full of junk, and sitting on the floor of the library, Kat could see the way it was affecting the two ghosts nearest her. 

Everything drawn out was another punch to the gut. The only good thing so far had been the clipped out article, and now that sat on its own beside a pile of ever-growing knick-knacks. 

Harvey, seeing an opportunity for some sort of organization, had begun to lay each and every piece they pulled out onto the carpet in a nonsensical pattern that didn’t help at all. 

So far it consisted of;

One article

One paper hat

One pen

One hand drawn map

One spyglass

Two dried flowers

One tube of extra strength hair gel

And a box of expensive cigars

And the big box between them looked far from empty of more useless clutter. 

“So,” Kat said, looking over the carefully placed spread of objects, “this is useless.”

“Somethings bound to come up,” said Harvey, plucking a pair of reading glasses out of the box, holding them up to his face. They went onto the carpet. 

Stinkie scoffed. “I dunno, doc. Startin’ to agree with Kat on this one.” He pulled a small, clear bottle of something. He shook it up. It sloshed around. “Look at this. They pack alcohol in this box or somethin’?”

Harvey looked away from Fatso to squint at the little, glass bottle. “Doesn’t look like it?”

Stinkie shrugged, twisting off the gold lid. He took a sniff and jerked back. “ _Oof_.”

“Smells bad?” Kat looked up. 

“Nah. Bads my forte. Smells… eh… not sure.” He extended his arm and she took a sniff, wrinkling her nose. 

Her father did the same. “S’either cologne or aftershave,” he said, taking it for the collection he was building. “Strong stuff. Did you wear it?”

“Not bringing up anything. Hopin’ somethin’ does. I was the only one not reactin’ to that place.”

“The only one? So Stretch-” Harvey looked over at the ghost, who was flipping nonchalantly through a book, pretending to ignore them. 

“Aw yeah. Worse than Fatso over here. Couldn’t pick himself off the ground.”

“Wasn’t that bad,” Stretch called over to them without looking up from the book. “I told ya’. The place was breakin’ me down. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with any of this shit.”

“Amelia said-”

“Amelia shoved him into that place because of some little girls _diary_ . Because one _little girl_ made one _little wish_ without thinkin’ twice about consequences.” He snorted. “An now _he’s gone_ . So really,” he said, casting his eyes on Kat, who suddenly felt very, very cold, “if anyone here is gonna catch some blame, why not start _there_ , hmm?” 

She struggled to say something, but fell flat. The world seemed too heavy. 

Stinkie had less reservations. He surged up, looking ready to start another fight that could only end one way, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. 

“Don’t,” Harvey said. “It’s not worth it. We’ve got stuff to do here, yeah?”

Stinkie looked between the therapist and his leering brother. His hackles lowered, and he nodded. 

From the bookshelves, Stretch rolled his eyes, shoved the book back onto the shelf, and plucked out another.

And the process on the rug went on just as it had before. 

Pull out junk, examine it, fall flat. 

Pull out junk, examine it, fall flat. 

Pull out junk, examine it, fall flat. 

Kat, still standing by the box, watched the cycle redo and refresh with an ever creeping sense of dread. 

She looked down at the little orb. 

_This isn’t working, Casper_. 

The orb didn’t say anything, but it pulsed in her hand. 

Stinkie pulled out a few more things, twisting them in his hands, while beside him, Fatso still stared into the box helplessly. Harvey fluttered between them, arranging and rearranging the objects they’d already found, trying his best to make some psychological sense out of them (a puzzle, maybe? a clue?). 

It was all overwhelming. Confusing. 

Terrifying. 

Kat remembered well the other night, holding Casper while ashes burned down in the fire. 

_We’ll figure it out_ , she’d promised him. _We’ll figure it out. You and me_. 

Tears burned behind her eyes again, but she blinked them back quickly. 

She was here, and he was _there_ , and there was nothing she could do but sit here and watch a bunch of adults flounder around junk and hope to make something stick. 

She stared down at the little orb in her hands. 

_Someone has to do something_. 

Somehow, she knew what Casper might have said back. Blue eyes gleaming, smile bright and wide, he would have looked her head on and asked, _why not you?_

She nodded. 

The orb in her hands pulsed. 

She'd gotten into this in the first place to help Casper. She'd collected memories, fought his Uncle's, and found what had been hidden away to help Casper. And that wasn't about to stop now. 

“Here,” she said, striding towards the box again. “Let me look.”

Fatso picked morosely through some more knick-knacks. “There really ain’t nothin’ here.”

“Then you’re not looking for the right thing.” She shifted some of the things around, moving them out and into a pile beside her. “Casper and I found his dad’s pictures in a drawer. I found these boxes under a sheet. That has to mean something.”

“Yeah,” said the ghost at the bookshelf, glaring over his nose. “Means your a snoop.”

She took a deep breath. “ _No_ ,” she said, swallowing back her anger. “It means that someone didn’t want these _found_. And it means that a lot of _this_ was done on purpose.”

“What, like… like someone hid these?” Stinkie watched her dig through the box. “ _Why_?”

“Probably because they knew that _someone_ in the house had a thing about arson,” she muttered. At her father’s withering look, she tried again. “Whatever the reason, they hid these because they were important. They were _valuable_."

“Or,” called Stretch, “someone was just real bad at packin’ and you’re runnin’ out of ideas.” 

"There's a code to this," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "You don't hide boxes packed with random objects for no reason." 

She’d been the one to find the boxes. She’d been the one to find the office. She’d been the one to find the etched dates beneath the pool table and the markings under a desk. And she’d done it because she was persistent, and she was smart, and she knew what to look for. 

So she kept looking, waiting to find that _thing_ to catch her attention. 

And that was the moment her hand bumped the book. 

It was sitting at the bottom of the box. The illustrations, pressed onto the beautiful leather cover, stared up at her. It was a thick book. A totally innocent looking book, meant to end up in the junk pile beside the hair gel and the loose fountain pen. 

And it was… familiar. 

She wasn’t sure where she’d seen it before, but she knew it. 

Somehow, she knew it. 

She pulled it out, reading the cover out loud. “ _20,000 Leagues under the Sea._ "

“Wonderful!” Stretch crowed. “First the girl has our nephew sent to a magical, lying Bumblefuck, an now it’s story time!”

But Kat wasn’t listening. She traced the cover with her fingers, turning it over in her hands. 

She knew it. She did. 

She twisted the book in her hands. It was hardcover — thick and leather bound — but it was surprisingly light for something its size. She frowned, and finally opened the book to get a peek inside, almost expecting to see an inscription or clue of sorts. 

Kat had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. 

“Oh,” she said, looking inside the book. “ _Oh_.”

“Honey?” Harvey looked up from the box. 

She didn’t answer. 

Couldn’t answer. 

The inside of the book had been hollowed out, and the inside of that had been used to store-

“Oh my god…”

“Kat?” Harvey tilted his head. 

“ _Look_ ,” she said, taking the treasure out. 

A stack of photos, at least three inches thick, sat in her hand. 

“Holy hell,” whispered Stinkie. 

“I told you,” she said. Her throat felt tight. She sat back on her knees, setting the hollowed book to the side, dropping the stack of pictures to the carpet, sifting through them. “It was all about finding the right thing.” 

"Why were they hidden?" Fatso opened book, looking at the hollowed out inside. 

"I don't know. Everything so far has been. They must have had a reason." She plucked out one of the pictures at random, moving it to the top of the stack. Something familiar once again was glaring back at her. 

Kat leaned forward on her hands and knees, staring down. It was a setting she was more than familiar with - the front steps of the manor. Out of the figures standing on them, she only knew one - the tiny fair-haired boy in the center. And flanking him - framing him - “Holy shit.”

“Bucket…”

“Sorry, but Dad - look! Is that-?”

He crawled over closer, peering down. “Holy shit.”

Stinkie, just behind them, finally leaned over to look. He grabbed Fatso’s arm. “Fatso…”

“I know,” his youngest brother choked. 

“We were-”

“I _know_ ,” he said again, nodding. His eyes found Kat’s. “I think this is what your ma’ was tryin’ ta show us. To tell me." He swallowed, wincing behind another spark of pain. “I don’t know how… but I remember. What I was tryin’ ta tell Casper. Before we- before he-” He shook his head, reaching out as if to touch the picture of the figures on the steps. “We were there." He dragged in a deep breath. "For one year, we were _there_.” 

Kat looked up at him. 

She looked at Stinkie, who'd stopped breathing. 

She looked at Fatso, his eyes wide. 

And then she glanced down at the orb beside her. 

_Alright, Mom_ , she thought, rolling back her shoulders. _I’m not sure what you’ve got planned, but I think I know what I have to do_. _And I’m going to do it my way._

If this was the path to getting Casper back, then so be it. 

_Operation_ _Memory Recovery_ was still a go. 

* * *

“This isn’t going to work,” Casper said, following Amelia into the foyer.

“What won’t?”

“That,” he said. “Because it’s not _real_.” 

The little boy on the steps had long vanished away, and the house was settling into its waiting emptiness. 

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” he said. “It’s _not_. Because he wouldn’t have… have done that to me.”

She hummed nodding. “And what would he have done.”

“Anything else. Because I remember him. And he was _here_.”

“Sometimes.”

“ _All the time_.” He crossed his arms. “It’s a lie. I know it’s a lie. Because I wasn’t alone.”

“Ah,” she said, with a smile. “That is the first reasonable thing you’ve said all night.”

“ _What_?”

“You're right. You weren’t alone.” 

He blinked at her, shaking his head. “No matter what you show me, it’s not going to make me want to-”

A _BANG_ interrupted him as the outermost set of front doors swung open.

“If I ever let you talk me into climbin’ in that bastard machine again, just shoot me, will ya?” A sharp Boston accent cut through the stained glass.

A deep, booming laugh followed. “Won’t have to! Looked like you were gonna have a heart attack the whole ride here - next time you’ll probably just drop dead in the driveway.”

“Can it, Franklin.”

“Don’t know what yer so scared of-” A third voice, higher, softer.

“Who said I was-”

“It’s a miracle of engineering!”

“You an your fuckin’ miracles. S’a miracle I survived the trip from the station.” 

The second set of doors opened. 

The man with the higher voice, springing across to the middle of the foyer floor, was slighter than the other two. He drowned in an unkempt suit that wore him more than he did it. He mussed his hair, tugging at the tiny sprig of a ponytail in the back, turning to flash them a crooked tooth leer. “You gotta start gettin’ with the times, or it’ll kick your ass when it catches up!” The man dropped a bag on the floor, tossing his hat down on top. 

“Don’t know why you’re botherin’ tryin’ to convince him,” said the booming voice, joining the brother in the foyer, dropping his own two bags. “Old men never change their ways-” Only an inch or two taller than the first but quite a few inches wider, the second brother carried his weight with confidence. Back straight and chin up, he removed the bowler hat and twirled it between his fingers. His coat was unbuttoned and he’d rolled the sleeves halfway up his forearms. “And he’s been an old man since Kents Hill!”

“Born an old geezer, too,” the slighter man cackled, but was cut short, yelping when a wide hand slapped the back of his head, the other one ducking away just in time.

“ _Shaddup_ , will ya?” 

The third man strode past them, dropping his own bag, and the house seemed to shift to accommodate his presence. The few staff who were in the room scattered like minnows from a shark. 

(And Casper could only watch him from above. Watch and feel himself grow cold.)

Everything about him was sharp. 

The crisp lines of his tailored suit. The slicked back brown hair, held tight and gleaming against his head. 

The way he held his towering height, gangly limbs, sizable and pointed nose, and dark eyes.

He was both a gnarled tree and the vulture atop. 

His dark eyes swept the room. 

“Alright,” he said, lifting his chin, teeth flashing. “Where’s the kid?”

Casper, from above, grabbed Amelia’s hand. “No,” he choked. “ _No, no, no_ -”

It wasn’t possible. 

It wasn’t _possible_.

It was wrong. Fake. A lie. 

Had to be a lie. 

“Please,” he whispered, looking up at the woman. “Not this. _Please_?”

When she didn’t answer, he stared back at the scene. Of the two men and the one in front of them. 

The Sharp Man cupped his hands around his mouth. 

“CAS- _PER_!”


	7. The Men and the Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The box has been opened, the boys return to Whipstaff, and two ghosts begin to remember.

“So explain this to me again,” said Harvey, moving a chair to the side. 

The other two ghosts were helping after Kat had begun barking orders, pushing all the tables away and onto the farthest walls of the library. 

Stretch had been sanctioned to the side, and was watching with narrowed eyes. She cast him a glare every so often for good measure. 

“It’s not that complicated, Dad.”

And they were running out of time; a fact that Kat was very much aware of whenever she caught sight of the little Casper Orb.

“ _Indulge_ me.” 

Kat was holding all the pictures she could find from the box. The little orb of Casper had been deposited onto a table off to the side where it could watch from a distance. She figured that if there was a chance he could see through to their world, then she was going to make sure he saw every moment of this. 

Of her. 

Still trying. 

“Operation Memory Recovery,” she said patiently. “Casper and I came up with it early on, when we found the first pictures.”

“Which you found…?”

“Here,” she said, “in the drawer of that desk while we were cleaning.”

“Okay,” said Fatso, watching her carefully. 

She was flipping through the pictures. The stack that she’d found at the bottom was substantial. A good three inches thick all together. A cacophony of sepia faces staring back at her. 

The face of Casper smiled up and she had to take a moment to breathe. “After we found those pictures, he began to have… dreams. About his dad. Little things, like sledding and biking. Things that were important to him.”

Stinkie nodded quickly. “Pretty sure your mom showed us a thing or two while we was there.”

Fatso’s eyes widened. “ _Yeah_! The kid saw a few of ‘em in the early memories.”

“The fake ones,” Stinkie reminded. 

“Right,” said Kat. “Anyway, the more that Casper and I found, the more he began to have those memories. Fake or not, they _helped_ him. So we decided to come up with a plan to help him remember his dad. And we called it Operation Memory Recovery. And it was going really well. Until…”

Stretch, from the desk, snorted. “Kitty Kat’s still mad about all’a that, huh?”

She sent him back a venomous stare. “ _You’re_ the reason he’s there.”

“And I told you before,” he said, leaning forward against the desk. “He’ll be back. When he gets it through his head that he’s got nothin’ else.” He rolled his shoulders, floating up and away, towards the bookshelves again. “And besides, you went up there an’ found more pictures of his daddy dearest anyway.” He nodded towards the box in the corner labeled CASPER’S FATHER. “No harm no foul, right, Kitty Kat?”

Her fist tightened. 

Her father, sensing a fight brewing, quickly grabbed her shoulder. “ _Stretch_ ,” he warned. 

The specter raised his hands. “I know, I know. Still in the doghouse, Doc.”

James ignored him, turning back to his daughter. “Continue.”

She nodded. “Mom did what she did for a reason. Whatever she’s doing now, wherever she _took_ him…?” She swallowed back the anxious feeling in her stomach. “She did it for a reason. And if she wants us to figure it out, then we’re going to figure it out. With all of this." And she gave the photos a wiggle. 

James nodded slowly, drifting his eyes over the empty space they’d created for the photographs, to the pictures in her hand, to the half unloaded box on the carpet. “I don’t know…” he said. “It just… it can be dangerous. To remember this much in such a short amount of time.”

“We told ya’ before, doc,” Fatso said, gently. “We might not _get_ that.”

“Amelia said we had a few hours,” Stinkie pointed out. He looked to Kat. “If that’s all we got… an’ if this worked for _Casper_ … then I’m all in.”

She looked at Fatso. He nodded. 

James took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Fine. But we move carefully. The last thing we need is someone overloading. It won’t help Casper if we’re catatonic.”

Kat nodded down towards the floor. “Alright,” she said. “We’re going to remember. If my mom says that it’s the only way to get Casper back, then that’s what we’re going to do. You guys are going to remember. Whether you like it…” And she looked over at the side, where a single ghost was floating alone, glaring back at her with the same amount of ire. “Or _not._ ”

* * *

Setting out the photographs didn’t take long. 

Kat placed each and every one of them down onto the carpet space that had been cleared away. She counted each of them, laying them in 6 neat rows. There were 43 in total, all in sepia, and (after a quick peek) all with the same handwriting on the back, marking the date and subject. Once she was done with that, she moved the box of stuff and the objects already unloaded right to its left. 

She stepped back, staring at her wild creation, nodding. 

The pictures of the Uncles and Casper. 

The not-so-random random objects. 

Whoever packed this box had done it all knowing what they were doing. They knew that they had to hide everything within plain sight. 

They just may have not expected that in one hundred years, the one person doing their best to decipher the riddle would be a 14 year old girl trying to save her ghostly best friend. 

She shook the thought away, rolling her shoulders. Not the time. 

Kat swallowed hard. She looked at the pictures around her, drinking them in. 

Casper had told her a lot about his dreams and occasional memories before. Some about his mother, but mostly about his father. If Fatso and Stinkie were telling the truth, then what Casper had seen in that place couldn’t have all happened. 

And even if they _weren’t_ , her mother _had_. 

For one year, his father hadn’t been there. 

His wife died, and for one year, he left. 

For one whole year. 

She looked at the pictures. At the smiling faces of Casper and Fatso and Stinkie, and the occasional scowling face of Stretch. 

For one whole year…

Kat felt her stomach tighten. 

“Hey… Fatso?”

“Yeah,” he said back, just as overwhelmed, not daring to look away. 

“You know how you said… how my mom said… that what Casper was seeing in his world was a fantasy?”

“... Yeah?”

“Well...“ she said, ears ringing. “I’m starting to get a feeling you might be right.” 

From the corner, on his own, a lone ghost grit his teeth hard to swallow back a wince and quickly looked away

* * *

The three men stood in the center of the spiral floor. From the direction of the kitchen, one of the staff - the woman who had taken Casper from the funeral - appeared. She took the scene in, pursed her lips and bustled over, jaw twitching at the muddy footprints and luggage on the floor. “McFaddens. _Honestly_. Haven’t we talked about-”

“Nice to see you too, Ms. Danvers.” The eldest moved past her easily, barely looking her way. 

“Mr. McFadden- _Stephen_ -” 

"This is my house, ain't it? My name on the deed, my floor to drop stuff all over." He continued charging forward while his two brothers suffered the brunt of her assault. 

“ _Honestly_ ,” she said under her breath once the eldest was out of earshot.

Franklin sheepishly handed her his hat. “Hiya there, Nell.”

“Don’t you start. The three of you… We _just_ washed these floors.”

Stephen cut her off again, cold eyes peering around the room. “Where’s the kid? Don’t he know to come when somebody calls?”

Ms. Danvers paused in her task of gathering up the hats and coats to furrow her brow at him. “He’s a child, not a _dog_.”

“There a difference?” 

She cast him a look, and he leered back before cupping his hands around his mouth and calling again, “Cas- _per_!”

It was a sound that shook the ghost to his core. His hands jerked back, as if to protect himself, breaths coming out too quickly. 

_Not real._

_Not real._

_Not real._

There was the sound of running down a hall, and then, at the top of the foyer balcony, the lonely boy appeared. 

Casper, floating below, wanted to cry. 

“This isn’t real,” he said, over and over. “ _This isn’t real_.”

“You asked for real memories,” Amelia said.

“But not _these_.”

“Sorry to tell you, dear, but I don’t have any other real ones lying around.”

He shook his head, closing his eyes to the scene. But he still knew. Knew that just behind the dark, they were there, waiting. And in the dark, all he could see were photos burning. 

_Not real._

_Not real._

_Please, please, please don't let this be real_. 

The shriek of the boy was all that drew him back. _His_ shriek. “Oh my _gosh_ , you’re here!” The boy barrelled forward down the stairs, running as quickly as his little legs could, reaching the bottom…

… only to accidentally slam right into a pair of long legs.

He was knocked over backwards by his own momentum. The little boy sat on the floor a moment, catching his breath, before noticing the pair of shiny, black shoes attached to the bottom of the long, long legs. He peered up, up, up. Past the custom fitted suit and tie the scowling, angry face. The owner of the legs stared down at him, a mix of distaste and unease on his face. 

“Um…” said Casper.

The ghost watching felt his own stomach tighten. 

Even here…

Even _here_ …

His Uncle Stretch looked at him the same way he always had. 

Beside him, Amelia grabbed his hand. 

It was barely enough to ground him. 

Samuel quickly trotted over to grab the tot by the arms and right him, pulling him hastily away from the tallest of the three. “Jeez, kid! They servin’ espresso with breakfast or somethin’?”

The boy recovered from his shock and laughed, bouncing on his heels. "Are you here to visit?"

"For a little while, yeah.”

"Heya, Casper!" The biggest brother dropped to one knee, arms spread wide. “Who’s got a hug for Uncle Franklin, huh?”

“ME!” The boy sprinted, crashed into the broad chest and was instantly swept up and into strong arms. “Did’ja bring me anything?”

The deep, booming laugh rang out, echoing through the room. “What do you take me for, huh? ‘Course I brought ya somethin’ - maybe a couple dozen somethin’s.”

From behind them, arms laden with overcoats, Ms. Danvers huffed, “He already has more toys than he could possibly play with.”

"What’s a few more, then?” Samuel gave her a guilty grin, then turned his attention to the boy. “How's it going, kiddo?"

"Good!" Franklin practically threw the kid over his shoulder, and he looked at his other uncles from where he was draped, beaming. "Do you want to see my trains?"

“Absolutely!” Franklin moved towards the stairs, the boy on his shoulder and Samuel close behind. “You usin’ our old playroom, right?”

“It used to be yours?”

“Yup.”

“Wow!”

They’d barely made it three steps up before the tallest brother cleared his throat loudly and the others twisted back around. “What?” Samuel asked.

Stephen rolled his shoulders, eyed them all sternly. “Ain’t you forgettin’ somethin’?”

Franklin quirked an eyebrow. Stephen nodded back towards the door, where a gaggle of young maids were struggling with a trunk that probably weighed more than the two of them combined. 

“Oh, heh, right. Sorry. Rain check, squirt,” Franklin began to let the kid down, holding him for a moment under his armpits, as if weighing a sack of apples. His eyes drifted over to his two brothers, one still scowling, one watching curiously. “Hey- uh. You eat yet today?”

A shake off the head. 

“Right!” Franklin clapped his hands together. “Why don’t you go tell the cook we’re here. It still Ms. Dibbs?” When Casper nodded, he gave the kid a soft push towards the downstairs steps. “Go tell her your uncles are here, and we’re all having lunch. And tell her, don’t hold back. I didn’t travel all this way to _not_ have her bread pudding.”

“Okay!” Casper ran off, feet receding on the steps. 

The Casper above, beside Amelia, watched the boy vanish. 

“Something wrong?” she asked, resting her elbows on the balcony railing.

“Only _everything_ ,” he choked, folding his arms. His hands shook. 

_Not real._

_Not real._

_Not real_. 

“Unfortunately, real life isn’t _all_ pirate games and fireworks shows. We’ll get to those, but not just yet.”

He grit his teeth in response, glaring down at the figures in the foyer.

Ms. Danvers finished placing the coats on the appropriate hooks and then turned to the maids still fighting with the trunk. “Girls, why don’t you go see that the bedrooms all have fresh linens? I think the gentlemen can handle their own luggage.” With tiny sighs of relief, they dropped the heavy thing on the marble floor and hurried up the stairs. The woman smoothed out her apron and quietly said, “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

The brothers stood in a row. Franklin ran a hand through his hair. Samuel picked at his cufflinks. Stephen stood ramrod straight. None of them looked at her. 

“Jesus you should have felt the kid…” Franklin broke the silence first, looking over at his brothers, turning his attention back to the housekeeper. “He’s losing too much weight-”

“It’s hard to get him to eat anything,” she explained with a dry laugh. “Hard to get him to do much, really. He’s been… having a difficult time.”

“Who can blame ‘im?” Samuel said, twisting his hands together.

“Which is part of the reason I called.” She looked behind the three men, as if expecting Casper to pop up. When he didn’t, she continued quietly. “Your brother has been in and out often for work. We’ve been trying our best with the boy. But he’s falling behind. First it wasn’t eating. Then it was locking himself away. Angry fits-”

“Yeah, well. That’s why we’re here,” said Franklin. 

Ms. Danver’s nodded gratefully before noticing one of the maids struggling with a stack of linens down the hall. She held up a hand. “Excuse me one moment, gentleman,” she said, before rushing over to help. 

The three men were left by themselves on the foyer floor, unaware of the two ghosts floating just behind. 

Casper could only watch as his Uncle Stretch — _Stephen_ he reminded himself — gave his youngest brother a look. “You’re ropin’ me in again,” he muttered, trying his best to keep his voice out of earshot of the maids.

Franklin barely cast him a glance. “Don’t know what you mean.” 

Stephen scoffed. 

His brother cast him a dark look. “Don’t start.”

“I ain’t startin’ nothin’.”

“You _are_.” He glared. “Do I need to remind you-”

“You don’t.”

“We’re here for _Casper_ -”

“No,” Stephen said, tightening his tie, crooking a brow at his brothers. “ _You_ two are. I’m just here to make sure this shit hole doesn’t get reclaimed by next Christmas-” 

“Jesus, Stephen,” Samuel said. He quickly lowered his voice when two of the maids looked over. “The kid needs help.”

“And keepin’ the roof — _my roof_ — over his head ain’t enough?”

“ _St_ _ephen_ ,” Franklin warned quietly. 

“You two don’t have to deal with the _banks_ . Or the _paperwork_ . Or gettin’ a call from Ms. Danver’s sayin’ that our darling brother up and left without payin’ off any of the bills on this house and the debtors were knockin’ again. And I still got _clients_ , you know that? I don’t got time to watch someone elses kid.”

“She called you about _Casper_ . That’s why we’re _here_. Or did you forget that?”

“And if I can remind _you_ ,” he hissed back, casting them both warning looks, “this is _my house_. J.T. lives here because he’s lucky I have other places to be, but I ain’t losin’ it because he couldn’t get his own head out of his ass. _That_ is why I’m here. To _work_. To make sure that J.T. doesn’t lose _my_ house, which, if I can remind _you_ , that kid lives in rent-fuckin’-free. Sorry if babysittin’ didn’t make it ta’ my priority list.” He scoffed at them both. “Not everyone lives off the royalties of their last album.” His gaze shifted to Samuel, “or gets a paid sabbatical for a year. Or has their fuckin’ inheritance on the fuckin’ line.”

“Just try to remember he exists, would you?” Franklin shot back. 

Stephen stiffened. “As long as he don’t climb into the oven, or chop of a hand or nothin’, then I did my job.”

Samuel gave him a look to freeze hell. “It’s _one year_. We’re here to watch the kid-”

“To _work_ -”

“To _watch the kid_ ,” Samuel stressed with a hiss. “Whatever you want to do, fine. But that’s your job. And do us a favor; try not to act like we’re pullin’ fingernails bein’ here.” 

“You ask too much of me, Samuel.”

On the balcony, Casper pushed off the railing with a grunt.

“Frustrating, isn’t he?” Amelia said, dark curls hanging off of her shoulder as she leaned over, watching.

“He’s the _worst_.”

The woman kept her eyes on the three men arguing in hushed voices. “He had… different ideas about what was important in life.” She pointed. “But the other two?”

“What?” he snapped. “So they’re not just- just falling in line behind him like usual. Doesn’t make them any better.”

“You don’t give them enough credit.”

“You give them too much.” He shook his head, turned away from the argument. “It doesn’t matter anyway, because _none_ of this is _real._ ”

“Oh right,” she hummed. “I forgot.”

Down in the foyer, Samuel was drawing himself up to his full height, fists clenched at his sides. “Yeah, that’s all any of us ever did, huh? Ask too much of-”

Ms. Danvers returned to the group, eyebrows raised, and, realizing they had an audience, Franklin slapped Samuel on the arm. “Come on, help me with the bags.”

“Ow! What?” The smallest of the three was given a pointed look by the biggest, and he nodded, though his scowl remained firmly in place. “Yeah, yeah, all right.” The pair of them passed through the double doors and were gone.

Another moment of silence as the remaining two adults faced each other.

The housekeeper smoothed her apron again needlessly. “I see some things haven’t changed,” she said.

Stephen ignored the comment, looking around instead while he slipped his hands into his pockets. “So. Where is my _darling brother_.”

“Prague.”

“Fuckin’ course.”

She took a step closer, sought his eyes, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. “It’s good to see you. You’re looking well.” 

He gave a curt nod. “There a room with a phone upstairs?”

She stepped back, frowning, and gestured upwards. “Just past Emily’s room. The old office. We had it installed to keep a line of communication open with the doctors. For all the good it did-”

“Have the mail put in there,” he said, cutting her off. “I’ll call the lawyers and advisors first thing tomorrow. And find out when the staff last got paid. If he ain’t gonna do what needs doin’, then I guess I’ll have to.”

“We’ve been managing just fine-”

“Yeah, that’s why I got bankers houndin’ my ass all the way down in Boston,” he cut her off again, scowling, “You do your job, an’ let me do mine.”

She met his eyes with her own hardening ones. “Of course.”

At that moment, the other brothers returned, arms laden with suitcases. “Think ya’ might be able to give us a hand, oh Fearless Leader?” Samuel panted.

Stephen turned. “I’ll get _my_ stuff.”

“But you only brought one trunk!” Franklin protested.

“Just because I’m not a diva-”

“Says the man in a ten dollar suit,” Samuel countered as the pair moved past him.

“You lookin’ ta’ lose teeth today?”

“Boys…” Ms. Danvers said warningly, just as the sound of little feet on the marble sounded. 

The return of Casper prompted a change in two of the Uncles. 

The third watched him with a cool stare. 

“Ms. Dibbs says lunch’ll be ready in an hour!” He ran up, using his Uncle Franklin’s leg as a lean-to.

His Uncle Stephen crooked a brow. “Plenty we can get done. Samuel, you wanna move the bastard machine out there into the shed.”

“Still don’t get why you don’t trust automobiles,” his brother said, ruffling Casper’s hair while he passed. “They’re the future, Stephen.”

“Learn to drive it, first. Samuel”

Franklin jerked a thumb towards the back of the house. “Going to let the rest of the staff know what we’re here for.”

“You do that.” The eldest crossed his arms. 

He went to turn and get his things-

-and nearly bumped into the child. 

Casper grabbed the railing, eyes wide. “ _What is he doing_?”

“You mean what are _you_ doin?” Amelia leaned forward. 

The little boy was standing in the foyer, looking up, up, up at his eldest Uncle. 

_Get out_ , Casper thought. _Get out, get out, get out_.

But the boy didn’t. Instead, he tried out a wide smile. “Hi!” He said. “Do you need help? Ms. Danvers showed me which room is yours! I can show you! It’s right near mine.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Is it.”

“Mmmhm!”

Amelia chuckled, shaking her head. Her curls brushed the oak railing. “You were such an optimistic and friendly kid. My Kat was never like that. She was all edges from the start. But you? You just wanted to help. At the beginning, you didn’t see a man who didn’t like you. You saw a man who didn’t know you yet, and you wanted to fix that.”

“It’s a _lost cause_.”

“It could be, yes.”

“He’s just going to _hurt_ the kid.”

“He is,” said Amelia. Her eyes hardened, staring at his Uncle. “Eventually. But you tried. Because that’s what you always did.” 

Stephen was still staring down at the boy like he’d crawled out of the gutter. “ _Casper_.” He said the name like a new, strange word. 

The boy, standing so far beneath the towering man, gave a nervous little wave. 

“You wanna help me?”

“Yes!” 

Stephen raised a brow. “I need some help gettin’ my bags upstairs. Think you can handle that?” 

Casper blinked, looking off at the luggage, down to his own little hands, and back up at his Uncle. … it looks heavy?”

Stephen snorted, fixing the child with a month’s worth of side-eye. “J.T. never got you doin’ any chores?”

The boy shook his head. 

“Nothin’? No cleaning? No extra work when you get mouthy?” He crooked a brow. 

Another shake.

“No time like the present..” He stood, looming over the child. “Come on. Ain’t got all day. Show you’re good for somethin’ around here.” 

The little boy followed, the threat of work barely registering, and he picked up the smallest bag while his Uncle grabbed his own. “If you want, I could show you my trains!” 

“No.”

“Why?”

The man didn’t answer, rolling his eyes instead.

The offsetting behavior didn’t dissuade the child, who was trying his best to make conversation anyway. “Do you like trains?”

“S’all I take.”

“That’s good! They’re my favorite too!”

“Uh huh. ‘Course they are.”

“There’s a train station in town! Sometimes you can hear the trains from-”

“You gonna talk all day? Or are you gonna actually _help_?”

The little boy behind him faltered, the words hitting sharply. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Something like fear sparked in his blue eyes. 

Floating below, the ghost swallowed. 

“Oh,” the boy said. “Sorry.”

Stephen gave him a cold look down the bridge of his nose before beginning to walk again. “My rooms all the way down the left hall. I’d like to be moved in before tomorrow.”

The child nodded, and hurried up after him. 

The memory faded, and the ghosts were left alone.

Casper, still floating in the middle of the landing, glared at the ground. 

“Casper,” Amelia reached for him, but he pulled away. 

“I don’t want to see this.”

She settled her hand back to her side, giving him a pitying look that set his teeth on edge. 

“First you’re trying to tell me that my dad was… was _that_ . And now _them_?”

“I’m sorry you’re disappointed-”

“It doesn’t matter if I am. This isn’t _real_.” He rubbed his face. “And if it was… you saw how my Uncle Stretch looked at me!”

“I did,” she nodded, dark curls bouncing. 

“So… so _why_ even show me this in the first place!”

Amelia sighed, resting her hip against the railing, nodding her head at the vaulted ceiling, the stained glass chandelier hanging at the top. “This house holds memories. Every room is filled to the brim with little moments. Some of them are wonderful. And others…” she turned back to him, “others are _not_. It’s a part of the reality. And you promised to watch that reality. All of it.”

He crossed his arms, glaring at her across the small space. “Not. Them.”

She smiled. “Even them.”

“I _left_ to get away from them. I don’t want to have to watch them take over my whole life here, too-”

“One year.”

He stopped his tirade, freezing beside the grandfather clock. “What?”

“One year,” she said again, eyes patient. “That’s how long they’re here for.”

Some of the anxious anger began to stiffen about his spine. “... that’s it?”

“That’s it.” She pointed out the window, at the orange leaves. “The memories I’m going to show you begin here, in October of 1886. You were still three. They’ll leave the same month in 1887 after you turned four.” Her hands folded again in front of her. “One year.”

Casper swallowed. The anxiety twisted a little tighter in his stomach. “... why?”

“Your father, J.T. McFadden, had just lost his wife. So he left the country. Your Uncle Franklin and Uncle Samuel talked, and agreed that they could take the time from work.. For one year.” She took in a deep, disappointed sigh, casting a glare up to where Stephen had vanished. “I also think that, to some extent, it was all your Uncle Stephen would have been able to handle.” 

“So…” he floated forward, “so after one year… they leave?”

“That’s right.”

“And my dad comes back?”

She nodded. “He does.”

A burst of something bright and hopeful settled beside the dark, and Casper clung to it. It was all he could do. 

She stepped towards him. “Do you think you could handle it? Seeing _one year_ of memories.”

He swallowed, looking back at the empty space his Uncles had occupied. He thought about his dad. 

One year. 

Just _one year_. 

“And, by your line of thinking,” she added, “if this isn’t real, then what’s the harm?”

His fists tightened. 

It wasn’t real. It _wasn’t real_. 

And even if there was a chance (the faintest, most minuscule of chances) that it was, it would only last for a year. 

One. 

Solitary. 

Year. 

“Fine,” he said, nodding stiffly. “I guess I could try.” 

Amelia’s smile was all teeth. “That’s what I like to hear.” 

* * *

“So let’s begin with what we know.” Kat was on her knees, going between pictures. “Casper had some background on his father before we even started looking at other stuff. What do you remember?”

“Not much.”

“Then list it,” she said, looking up at Fatso. 

He swallowed. “J.T.’s wife-”

“ _Emily_ ,” said Stinkie.

“Right. Emily. She died. And we stayed for one year after.”

Kat nodded. She looked over at her dad. “Is that normal?”

“What?”

“For a husband to leave after something like that happens?”

“People process grief in _lots_ of different ways, honey.” He wiped his glasses on the hem of his sweater. “I mean, I dragged you around the country for a year and a half, hunting ghosts. Who’s to say what’s ‘normal’?”

She shrugged in acquiescence. “Okay. So he left - where did he go?”

“Prague.”

The answer came from across the room, and everyone turned.

Stretch didn’t look up from the book he was holding, didn’t even turn their way. “... _always_ fuckin’ Prague,” he muttered. His shoulders rose sharply and he let out a hiss. Then he shook his head and turned another page.

The teen narrowed her eyes at his back. 

“Yeah,” Fatso said, drawing her attention away. “It was usually Prague. Or Paris. Sometimes Milan.” He winced, then pointed up, towards the chair that was the ‘Up & At ‘Em Machine’. “They liked his work, the Europeans.”

“So he went for work.” Kat nodded, pieces of the puzzle sliding into place. “And you guys came to fill the gap.”

“Guess so,” the large ghost said, but he looked less-than convinced.

Kat examined the pictures. There were only about three of Casper alone. Most of them were of him with one or both of the Uncle’s in front of her. 

Casper and Stinkie on the driveway. 

Casper and Fatso in the playroom. 

Casper and Fatso and Stinkie on the couch with books.

Wait. 

Actually... 

It took her a moment to see that in a good number of the pictures, there was a fourth figure. Tall and spindly and glowering, she almost didn’t understand _how_ she’d missed seeing him at first. 

And then she realized why. 

The spindly, glowering man was never really _in_ the picture. 

He was always off to the side or behind. Separating himself from the rest of the group, standing stoic, looming over the little scene. 

Like a vulture. A shark. 

There were only a handful of him with just Casper, and unlike his brothers who kneeled or had an arm around the child. He stood stiffly beside the boy, arms clasped behind his back, looking into the camera like it had dared to point his way. 

She picked it up. On the back it read _Casper and Stephen: 1886_. She held it up towards the ghost who was still refusing to look her way. “Nice to see that some things never change.” 

He flipped a page in the book with extra force. 

Kat rolled her eyes, putting the picture of the Boy and the Shark back down. 

“Okay,” she said. “So if we’re going to make this work, we’re going to need to look at some pictures of you guys and him together. If my mom wanted you to learn something, some _truth_ , then it has to have happened in that year you were together, right?”

“Makes sense,” said Stinkie, nodding. 

“Which means,” she asid, sitting back, looking at the pictures and the items, “that the answer _is_ here. It’s just going to be figuring it out.” She looked towards her dad. “Where would you start?”

He looked over the photos and then the ghosts before them, and she could see his brain sorting through the situation as best it could. She doubted that any one of his sessions had ever resulted in something like this. “I suppose with whoever remembers the most. See if it triggers memories in anyone else along the way.”

“Which is you,” she said, turning to Fatso. He nodded mutely. “You’ve had the clearest memories so far. Let’s start with that.” She looked down at the pictures, looking for one of just the two of them. It wasn’t hard. There was one sitting just by her elbow. 

She picked it up, reading the back. 

_Franklin and Casper: 1886_

_Back from walk in town_

She took another look at the picture itself. The man was beaming at the camera. The little boy hung off his shoulder in the midst of laughing. 

Something in Kat twisted up tight, and she tamped it down as quickly as she could. 

“Here,” she said. “That’s a pretty good one.” 

Fatso took it with careful hands, showing it to his brother beside him. “Lookit that!” He grinned almost hesitantly. “Stinkie, _look_.” 

“Geez. You weren’t kiddin’. Puny little thing, wasn’t he?.” 

Fatso nodded, wincing again. He shook out his arms. “I can still sort of feel him, if I think hard enough about it,” he said, looking at Harvey.

“It must have been something common,” said Harvey. “Touch can be a surprisingly potent way to remember things if it’s repeated enough times. Like how people sleepwalk and remember the right way to walk down the stairs. Repetition breeds familiarity.” 

Stinkie snorted. “Yeah, cuz the kid was almost always climbin’ all over him. I mean you rarely even put the kid d-” he stopped himself, pulling back, surprised by his own words, touching his temple gently. “ _Shit_.”

Harvey reached out quickly, looking over his glasses, concerned. 

“S’fine. Just…” he blinked, the feeling apparently fading. He almost seemed disappointed. “Didn’t get any of this back in that place. Just little blips.”

“You’ll get there,” his therapist said, gently. 

Fatso was barely listening to either of them, staring down at the picture with huge eyes. “Jesus, the kid was all over me! But I… was fine with it. Carried him _everywhere_ . Aw man, an’ Stretch would tell me to put the kid down all the time. Swore the kid’s legs were gonna fall right off. And he was so _small_ . Too small. Kid didn’t eat after his ma’ died and his dad went away, and I remember thinkin’ he was too _small_ .” His hands were shaking again. “How could I have _forgotten_ that?”

Kat crawled closer, looking at the picture in his shaking hands. At the man carrying the laughing child. 

It was hard not to notice a clear difference in all of the photographs; between Fatso and his boundless affection, hugging the boy in more than a few, to Stinkie and his careful attention beside the kid, to the final brother, who put at least a good foot between himself and Casper whenever the camera dared to catch them together. 

She looked back at the one Fatso held. 

“You guys look close.”

“I think,” he said softly, touching the faces in the photo with careful fingers, “I think we were…” 

* * *

“You were too small.”

It’s the first thing Amelia said when she led Casper down towards the kitchens. 

He looked up at her, brow furrowing. “What?”

“You were too small,” she said again. “Ms. Danvers, the housekeeper, brought it up in the foyer when your Uncle’s first arrived. And she was right. At the beginning of their year with you, you were too small.” 

From down the second staircase, kitchen door in sight, Casper could smell bread baking and coffee brewing. 

“It had been… a long time since you’d had much care. Your mother was sick for a long time. Your father worked in his lab. So for most of your early years, you were alone. And then your mother passed, and your father went traveling, and… it’s a lot for a young boy. Too much. The anxiety. The grief. It’s enough to emotionally exhaust any adult. Let alone a _child_. So you stopped eating, and you weren’t sleeping.” She shrugged. “It became almost impossible for the staff to take care of you. You were a worn through, boney thing when they arrived.”

He glared at the wall. “So?”

“So,” she said, stepping through the kitchen door, “at least one Uncle was trying to change that.”

The kitchen was a thrum of activity when they arrived. The chef was standing over the stove, and two of the maids chopped herbs and potatoes for dinner. Steam fogged the windows, and the leaves behind them were smudges of color. 

He nearly hit the wall when the second set of back doors burst open. 

The little boy ran through, cheeks pink, panting through wild giggles. He was wearing a hat and mittens, a scarf tucked beneath the collar of his jacket. 

Beneath it all, the ghost could see, if he looked close enough that, yes. He was too small. 

There was an heir of exhaustion around the boy. A strange, clinging weakness around the too-sharp definition of his face. 

His Uncle wasn’t far behind him. “Whoa there, short stuff!”

Casper, jumping around the table towards the housekeeper who was just finishing brewing a pot of coffee. “Hi Ms. Danvers!” 

She looked down, grinning when she saw him. “Well hello there!” She wiped her hands onto her apron. “Where have you been?” 

“Uncle Franklin took me outside and I played in the leaves, and now he says we’re gonna walk to town an’ watch the boats! Did you know that there are _big boats_ , Ms. Danvers? _So, so big_!”

“Well that does sound fun.” She looked up at Franklin, who was leaning against the table. “And from the looks of it, you’re wearing your poor Uncle out.”

“Other way around,” Franklin said, jovially. “Just you wait. I’ll be carrying this one back on my shoulder.”

“He could do it too, Ms. Danvers! Did you know Uncle Franklin is _so, so strong_?”

Ms. Dangers chuckled, putting the pot of coffee on the table, offering a mug to Franklin, who took it gratefully. “Must be quite the boost to have him around,” she whispered. 

“Oh,” his Uncle murmured back, hiding a grin, “you’ve got no idea.” 

“This was just three days after they’d arrived,” Amelia told Casper. “And as soon as your Uncle Franklin got ahold of you? There was a change. I mean, look.” She pointed to the little boy who was peering over the lip of a counter, watching the chef work. “The little boy on the stairs is almost gone.” 

He ignored her, glaring at the floor. 

Amelia led him around the kitchen. “When Ms. Danvers called, asking for help with Casper for the year, he jumped to do it. Samuel wanted to, but Franklin? He was out the door before she’d had a chance to explain. He always adored you. And you clung to him. The two of you were inseparable when you were together.”

“So in this _fantasy_ , I had one nice Uncle.”

“In a way.”

“You realize that he _hates_ me back where I came from. So this _can’t_ be-”

“Oh look!” Amelia cut him off, looking over at what the chef was cooking to exclaim, “is that _rhubarb pie_?”

“But-”

She was already bustling over to watch the chef roll out crust. “Kat used to love this!” 

Casper rolled his eyes, getting nowhere with his guide, and glanced around on his own. Everything looked mostly the same. From the table to the cupboards to the ice box. But there was more life. More joy. Franklin was laughing about something with one of the maids while the sounds of cooking bubbled and hissed and gurgled all around them. 

He shook his head. 

_Not real_ , he reminded himself. 

_One year, not real, one year, not real._

The boy in the scene wasn’t aware of the ghost having a crisis, and was still jumping around the kitchen for a few more moments before running as fast as he could behind the table and the man sitting at it, heading for the doors. 

A hand grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket. “Where do you think you’re goin’, short stuff?”

“To see the boats!”

“Not yet you’re not. We made a _deal_ , remember?”

The boy drooped. “But-”

“But nothin’. Come on.” He patted the chair next to him. “Up you go.” 

The child piled his scarf, hat and mittens on the table and then climbed up into the chair. Ms. Danvers paused on her way to the pantry, eyeing him. “What’s this? Young Master McFadden? At the table? My eyes must be playing tricks on me.”

“Get used to this sight,” Franklin said, gesturing with his mug. “New rule is no afternoon fun until _after_ lunch.”

“Oh really?” She looked at the boy. “Are you hungry?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“For anything in particular?”

He blinked, as if the question had never been put to him before. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, shoulders hunched, little fingers gripping the edge of the table. 

Beside him, Franklin ran a hand along his back. “Anything you want, short stuff.”

Little Casper hesitated a minute more. He glanced up at the housekeeper, found her smiling warmly at him, and asked quietly, “Currant jelly and cream cheese sandwich?”

She knocked her knuckles against the table once. “Coming right up.”

The boy turned a surprised smile to his uncle, who laughed. “See? Nothin’ to it, kid.”

A short moment later and the child was happily munching on his lunch while his uncle sipped his coffee and the kitchen bustled around them.

The boy was in the midst of talking to Franklin about all of the trains he knew ( _which are better than boats, Uncle Franklin, but only by a little bit_ ) when one of the maids dropped a knife onto the counter at the sight of someone in the doorway. She quickly grabbed it back up. 

Nell, from her place fixing more coffee, turned. Her eyes hardened. “Mr. McFadden.”

Stephen stood at the head of the kitchen, observing the bustle with steely eyes.

His gaze only briefly landed on the boy sitting at the table, hands covered in jelly and cream cheese before moving on to his brother. 

“Franklin.”

“ _Stephen_ ,” his brother said back, lifting his chin. 

Before Franklin could say anything else, the little boy had decided to take a chance. “Uncle Stephen!” Casper perked up at the table between bites of the sandwich, watching his eldest Uncle stalk through, grabbing a mug from the counter. “Uncle Stephen! Uncle Franklin said we’re gonna go see the boats!” 

The man said nothing, gruffly moving away as a maid quickly skirted past. 

The little boy faltered, almost used to the lack of attention, and tried again. “They’re all the way in town, and we’re gonna walk!”

The man grabbed the coffee pot from the table. 

“If you want, you can come with us! It’ll be so much-”

“No,” said Stephen, dropping the pot back onto the table before moving away and out the kitchen door. 

Casper began to droop, staring down at his plate. 

Nell moved forward, but his Uncle was faster. 

“Aw, forget him,” Franklin said quickly. He plucked an apple from the basket at the center of the table. “He never eats lunch, so he never gets to do anything fun.”

Casper frowned. “He _should_ though, right?”

“Lost that battle years ago, short stuff.” The big man shined the apple on his shirt front and took a bite, speaking around it. “Lost cause, that one.”

The boy was still watching the door, pale eyebrows knit close together.

Franklin watched him, then looked over as Ms. Danvers. She plucked a washrag from a hook and bustled over to clean the boy’s hands. “I don’t know about you, Mr. McFadden, but that looks like a finished lunch to me.”

Casper turned, eyes brightening. “Yeah?”

The big man mouthed a quick ‘thank you’ to the housekeeper before addressing the boy. “Sure does! Bundle up, kiddo! The boats are waitin’!”

With a _whoop_ the boy swept his things from the table, pulling them on as he ran for the door. 

Off to the side, leaning against the far counters, Amelia asked, “Is it strange that I _really_ want to try one of those sandwiches now?”

Beside her, the ghost rolled his eyes. “How much more of this is there?”

She laughed. “We’re only three days in, remember? Three-hundred and sixty-two more to go.”

He groaned.

* * *

Kat stood above the photographs, lips pursed. It was strange how well she recognized the faces staring back up at her. It was _also_ strange to think about them - these other-worldly entities she’d known so long as annoyances at best and as tormentors at worst - as just...men. Men who wore suits and ties. Who shined their shoes and gelled their hair and went to _work-_

“What did you guys even _do_?”

From the floor, Fatso and Stinkie looked up.

“Do?” they echoed.

“Like, for jobs.” She waved a hand down at the photos. “Who can afford to take a whole year off to come home and watch their brother’s kid? Were you guys, like, trust-fund babies or something?”

From the wingback chair he’d settled in, James glanced up at the lofted ceiling. “Wouldn’t surprise me, honestly.”

“Naw…” Fatso shook his head. “I mean, yeah, probably, but-” He leaned over the photos. “If we didn’t work, why weren’t we already here?” 

Kat had to admit, it was a fair point. 

“Traveling, maybe?” She looked at the pictures. All of them were from Whipstaff and most of them were in the midst of doing pretty mundane childhood things. No clues there. 

Which meant that one of the objects would tell her something. 

“J.T. was traveling for work. You could have been traveling, too.” 

Harvey squinted. “Wait…” he said. “I feel like we read something about this…” He scanned the floor, finding the article from the funeral. “Right here!” He read it over again out loud, using his finger to mark his place. “ _The funeral was attended by Mr. McFadden’s brothers; Stephen, Samuel, and Franklin McFadden, who traveled from Boston and Chicago respectively for the event_.”

Kat rolled her eyes off to the far side of the room. “Well, I guess we know which one of you was living in Boston.” The eldest of the brothers ignored her. “How do you forget absolutely _everything_ about your life and still have an accent that thick? How do you even _get_ an accent from a place you weren’t born?”

“S’where he went ta school,” Fatso said, and the girl whipped back around to look at him. “Got in… some kind trouble I think, at school up here. So he got sent down there instead.”

“Gee, that’s a shock.”

The big ghost chuckled faintly. “Yeah.”

“Ok, well that’s no real help. He got shipped to school in Boston and just _stayed_ I guess. What about the two of you?” She was crawling back over to the box. “Why Chicago? What was in Chicago?”

Fatso looked at Stinkie, who was staring down at the photos shaking his head. 

“Different things…” Fatso said slowly. “We weren’t there for the same thing…” He rubbed his temples. “I was… I was doin’ somethin’.”

“Brilliant observation!” Stretch called over. 

Fatso ignored his brother. “I remember - I was workin’ almost every night.”

Kat was digging through the box again, shifting through objects. “Do you remember what you did?”

He frowned at the carpet, picking at a loose thread. “No. But yes?”

From his chair, Harvey leaned forward. “Break it down, like we practice in session. Use your senses. Do you remember smell? Touch? Taste? Sight? Sound-”

“Music.” Fatso’s head jerked up. “I remember _music_.”

“Well that makes sense,” said Kat, closing her hand around something that had fallen towards the bottom. “Look what I found!” 

She held out a thin, yellowed paper booklet sewn together with string. Across the top, in tall, narrow letters, it read, _‘Franklin McFadden in THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST - a David Henderson Production’._ It went on to list the dates, and the entirety of the cast on the cover. 

* * *

There are flickerings of memories around them. More memories as Amelia walked them through. The three Uncle’s going about their days, in and out of rooms.

“They still needed to work,” Amelia explained, as she perused through one of the drawing rooms, watching Fatso chat on the phone, a script in front of him. 

“He was an actor?” Casper watched his Uncle flip through pages, jovially chatting with the person who could only be his agent on the other line. Outside the leaves were orange and yellow still. 

“He was,” she confirmed, grinning as Franklin stood, carrying the phone line with him. He recited a line or two out loud, booming voice hitting the ceiling. “His next show is going to be another classic.”

The door cracked open and Franklin paused his recitations to peek around the chairs and tables towards the large oak doors on the opposite side of the room. A little blonde head peeked through. Blue eyes found the only other person there, and the little face flushed. “Sorry!” the three year old peeped. He pointed with a little finger. “I forgot my train…”

“Marty, hold on! My nephew just showed up! C’mere, kid!” Franklin dropped the receiver back onto the table, gesturing the child over. The little boy bounced in, glad for the invitation, and was swept up, plopped onto the seat beside his Uncle. “Casper! Say hi to Marty!”

“Hi Marty!” Casper squeaked. 

“We’re looking at a new play. Trying to decide if I want to take this one, or that one.” He pointed between the two. “How about you help me. Marty! I’ll call you back! I’ve got a new agent now!” 

The man on the other end laughed and said something. Franklin bid him goodbye and hung up, before picking up the booklets and sharing them with the child beside him.

The Ghost of Casper said something under his breath, and Amelia turned about to look his way. “What was that, dear?”

“I said he seems… nice.” The words felt like a betrayal. 

“He was,” Amelia said. She moved to stand beside the two people in the memory, peering over the larger man’s shoulder down at the open scripts. “He probably still is, if he ever remembered.”

* * *

Fatso’s hand shot out before he seemed to realize it, grabbing the paper from her. “That’s _my name_. Doc - that’s…” He flipped through the playbill. “I was an actor! S’the reason I went to Chicago in the first place. This was one’a my bigger plays, but I was in musicals, too.”

“That… makes sense,” Kat said. She scanned the pictures again, landing on one in particular. “Actually… it _really_ makes sense. See?” She plucked it from the rest. It was a little grainier, because the boy in the picture looked like he’d been moving the moment it was taken, but it was clear enough that some sort of game was going on. She recognized the living room across the foyer. The middle of it had been transformed into a collection of chairs, covered in white bedsheets. 

Kat looked up, scanning the objects that they’d played on the carpet. “I wasn’t really sure what this was at first,” she said, plucking the folded paper hat from its place. “I thought it was junk-”

“It’s all junk, Kitty Kat,” Stretch called from the bookshelves. “I’m tellin’ ya now. Keep ya’ from bein’ too disappointed.”

“It’s _not_ ,” she shot back. “Dad. Look at the picture. Look at this. Does it make you remember any games _we_ used to play?”

Her father adjusted his glasses, staring at the picture and the hat, doing his best to ignore the way Stretch made another _useless junk_ comment from across the room. “I’ve spent enough time building forts to know one when I see one,” he said, smile warm. “But this might actually be meant to be a-”

“Pirate ship!” The playbill dropped from Fatso’s hand, grunting as another wince pulled his face taught. “The kid _loved_ playin’ pirates - an’ I’d done a run of _Penzance_.” He floated closer to Harvey’s chair. “Think he made me do a one-man version a couple’a times.”

“Makin’ so much noise,” someone said from the side, “And ya’ know it makes it impossible to work.” 

The words came seemingly out of nowhere from the ghost by the bookshelves. Kat turned around, ready to tell Stretch that the vacuum cleaner was in the closet and she had no problem getting it…

… but then she paused. Froze. 

Her father noticed too, turning at the same time to face the ghost. His brow furrowed. “Stretch?”

But Stretch didn’t hear him. He was gazing towards the door at something far off. 

And then he frowned, looking down at something that wasn’t there. 

“Fuckin’ imposible to get any work done,” he said, voice coming from somewhere deep inside. 

Harvey stood up from the chair. “Stretch?” 

“Someone’s gotta pay the bills around here, and I can’t make a single damn phone call with you two-” 

“ _Stretch_?” 

Stretch blinked, as if returning to the room. He jerked backwards, hitting the bookshelf, gulping in air. It took him a moment to recover enough to glance up again, and when he did, the looks on their faces was enough to confirm what he’d apparently been fearing. Eyes wide, he flew off to a farther corner.

James took a step to follow, when Stinkie blurted out, “For fuck’s sake! This asshole’s rememberin’ even though he doesn’t wanna, meanwhile I’m still- still on the outside lookin’ in! What gives, Doc?”

The therapist looked absolutely torn, attention moving from one brother to the other rapidly, panic on his face. “Let’s all just take a minute here, okay?” he said to the room.

Kat was peering with uncertainty towards the space under the spiral stairs where Stretch had retreated. She could see him clutching at the metal railing, shoulders rising and falling rapidly. “What’s he _doing_ , Dad?”

Harvey followed her gaze. “Oh _hell_.” He turned back to Stinkie, who was glaring at him expectantly. “Give me just- just one minute, okay?”

The middle brother crossed his arms. “Of course our fearless leader’s gotta be the center of attention.”

The human put a hand on the ghost’s shoulder. “Don’t think that’s what this is. You all just keep searching. Honey-” He looked to Kat, then gestured at their collection on the floor.

“But Dad, what’s he-?”

“Just stay over here - and try not to- to _stare,_ okay?”

He looked serious enough that she reluctantly nodded, and took a seat back on the carpet by the photos. With relief, he hurried off to the staircase. 

Not staring proved very _, very_ difficult. As much as she wanted to do as he asked, it was hard to focus on anything else. She could hear her father repeating _breath, just breathe_ amid protests of _m’fine dammit_ and increasingly high-pitched wheezing.

She forced her attention back to the floor - to the two ghosts she wasn’t currently furious at, the ones who were _trying_. “So Fatso was an actor. Maybe there’s something here that’ll tell us what you did, Stinkie. You knew that latin name for the plant. Were you, like, a scientist or something?”

He shrugged, his own attention _also_ being pulled away towards the stairs, eyes dark. “Hell if I know, kid.”

“Hey, c’mon, _ignore_ him.” She snapped her fingers in front of the ghost’s face. “Focus. We can figure this out.”

With a sigh, he slumped forward, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, glaring at the floor. “If you say so.”

“I _do._ ” She leaned forward on her hands, scanning the photos. There had to be a clue in _one_ of them. She started to pluck out the ones he was in from the group, separating them, hoping a pattern would emerge.

And slowly…

...one _did_.

“You were outside with him a lot,” she pointed out. “Look.” She slid a photo towards him. Behind the film grain, the little boy was holding his arms out straight, mud-caked up to his elbows, while his uncle sprayed his hands with a garden hose. “And here.” She pushed another towards him. In it, the pair of them were standing in front of the open shed, each holding a shovel - the boy’s was twice as tall as he was. “Actually… almost every picture of just the two of you is _outside_. What were you guys doing?”

Her father rejoined the group (looking a touch rattled), muttering, “Sorry about that, boys. What’d I miss?”

“Not a lot,” Kat said as Stinkie picked up the pictures half-heartedly. “We were just trying to put together what-”

“ _Shit._ ”

Kat jerked back, blinking. 

Her father was crouching down, wide eyed as the middle brother curled in, twisting. “Stinkie!”

“What the _hell?_ ” He shook his head, fingers curling. “ _What the hell!_ ”

Fatso was by his side in a moment, grabbing his arm. “That’s the feeling,” he said, urgently to Harvey over his brother’s head. “The one Stretch and I got. When we saw something.” 

“Fuck fuck fuck!” Stinkie shuddered, eyes closed tight, teeth gritted. 

His brother leaned in close, voice low. “Don’t fight it,” he said gently. “The more ya fight it, the more it hurts. You got this, man.”

Stinkie sucked in a shaky breath. “How?”

“Like Doc was sayin’. Try ta focus on one thing - somethin’ ya see, or hear, or sm-”

“Dirt!” Stinkie’s eyes opened again. “Kid was like a dog sometimes, loved makin’ a mess. I caught him with a basket full ‘a tulip bulbs - kid thought they were somethin’ ta eat.” He chuckled. “Had ta put ‘em all back before the frost set in, an’ he just kept askin’ questions…” He floated up, eyes searching. His gaze landed on the wide windows, moved towards it, squinting through the rain at the trees outside. He touched the glass. “Wanted to know how things grew.” 

* * *

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Amelia watched the ghost out of the corner of her eye as they moved through the halls.

“Trying to tell me I should go back.”

“Am I?”

He nodded. “You’re telling me that he’s still… good, or nice. But it doesn’t erase all the- the- _awful years_ . My Uncle Fatso would _never_ act like that . _Ever_.”

“I never said it would erase the bad.” Amelia shrugged. “Only stating what I know. What I can see. That’s all.”

Casper frowned at the floor. “It doesn’t matter anyway. One of them was nice. So what. My Uncle Stinkie still can’t stand me…”

She hummed, nodding, before looking out one of the large, back windows. “Your Uncle Samuel. I do wonder what he’s up to.” She turned back, smiling. “Should we find out?”

Casper rolled his eyes. Mumbled _fine_ under his breath. 

“That’s the spirit,” said Amelia, whose tone suggested she was well practiced in the way of Backseat Angsty Teenagers. 

It was a surprise when she gestured him along through the foyer, the front doors, and out into the drive. It was an even bigger surprise when she kept walking around the side of the house. 

The leaves had long fallen off the trees, and were piling up outside. The air was crisp and clean and cool, and tingled in his lungs. “Where are we going?” He kept pace, looking around at all the drying grass and too-perfect flowers. 

“Your Uncle Samuel was a notable professor in a prestigious institution in Chicago,” Amelia said. 

Casper faltered. “ _My_ Uncle?”

“Mmmhm.”

“... you’re sure?”

She laughed, picking up her skirts to avoid dragging them in a patch of mud. “It turns out, he was very, very good at growing things. Botany was his specialty. He spent a lot of time outside in the dirt. And where you find dirt?” She pointed to a scene at the side of the house, grinning. “You can almost always find a child.” 

Casper followed her finger, blinked.

The little boy was holding a shovel twice the size that he was, doing his best to dig a hole in the ground, throwing dirt into a pile beside him. “Am I doing a good job?”

“Oh yeah, kid. Keep going.” Samuel was carefully untying burlap from the bottom of a small tree. “Needs to be at least two feet deep.”

Amelia sat herself down on a stone bench with a good view of the activity. “He wanted to come here, just like your Uncle Franklin. As soon as he got the call, he applied for a sabbatical from work. He wanted to help _you_. He just wasn’t as sure how. He was a teacher, but his students were adults - or nearly so. It took some doing to adjust his style to suit the needs of a preschooler, but he got the hang of it quickly enough.”

Floating behind her, Casper eyed the scene warily

The boy looked happy to keep digging, stopping when his Uncle said, “Alright - that looks good!” 

“Can I help!”

Samuel carefully dropped the tree into the hole, and showed Casper how to fill it with new dirt he’d brought in a bag. 

“Why can’t we use what I dug up?”

“S’not full of all the food it needs.”

“Trees eat _food_.” Casper’s face was a mixture of curiosity and mild horror as he looked at some of the trees behind him suspiciously. 

Samuel snorted. “Not like we do. I mixed all sorts’a chemicals in first. Vitamins. Minerals. Stuff like that. But yeah, they eat. You don’t grow unless we remember ta’ feed ya’.”

“So… I could eat that?”

“Not unless ya’ want me ta plant ya’ out here and let ya’ sleep in the garden.”

“No, thank you!” 

“Good choice.”

The two of them took handfulls of dirt, not bothering with gloves, dropping it around the sapling. 

“It’s October,” Amelia explained. “And a perfect time to begin planting flowers that would spring up in a few months. But an especially good time to begin choosing spots for new trees. This is the first sapling you two would plant together. It’s a birch, I think. James was always better at remembering the names.” 

The little boy threw dirt into the hole, but his hands were caught by larger, careful ones. 

“Gentle, bulbhead!.”

“Sorry!” Little Casper piled dirt gently where his Uncle instructed. “It’s so small!” 

“Yeah, but it’ll grow.”

“How big?”

“Taller than you.”

“Taller than Uncle Stephen?”

“Oh, nothin’s taller than Uncle Stephen. Or his ego.” 

“What’s ego?”

Samuel paused, spotted his eldest brother on the porch nursing a cigarette. The ghost of Casper hadn’t even realized he’d been a part of the memory until the younger, smaller man pointed him out. 

“S’what makes yer nose grow,” he said with a smirk. “The bigger the nose, the bigger the ego. Ya know, _his_ used ta be a button just like yours, way back when.”

The boy’s eyes widened and he whipped around to gape at the uncle on the porch. “Gol- _lee_ ,” he said, going slightly pale.

“So ya better learn to keep yer ego in check, or you’ll end up like the buzzard over there.”

Casper nodded resolutely.

It didn’t take long to fill in the hole, and once that was done, Samuel let him help plant a row of tulip bulbs. 

From the porch, Stephen was still watching. 

Beside Amelia, Casper looked over at him again. “What is he _doing_ there?”

“Ruining his lungs.”

Casper rolled his eyes. “But why is he _there_?”

The man flicked ash onto the rail, eyes flicking over towards the boy and Samuel in the garden. 

She shrugged. “Taking a break from work. Does it matter?” 

He supposed it didn’t, and went back to watching the little boy get dirt all over himself trying to help his Uncle in the garden. 

“When springtime comes,” Samuel was saying, “we’ll hafta pick a really good spot for a garden.”

“But we already have a garden.” The boy pointed towards the front of the house, where the topiaries and the fountain stood tall.

His uncle shook his head. “Nah, a _useful_ one. We can grow fruits and vegetables.”

“Really?”

“Sure! You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve had strawberries straight off the vine.” He stood, brushed his hands on his trousers. “So whenever you’re playin’ out here, keep an eye out for what spot gets the best sun. Think you can do that?”

“Uh-huh!”

“S’a pretty important job.”

“I can! I can!” 

Samuel laughed, clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Well since we’re in the right mindset, you wanna go inside and look at my seed catalog?”

“There’s a whole catalog just for seeds?” Casper asked as he followed his uncle back towards the house.

“There’s catalogs for _everything_ , bulbhead.”

“Wow…”

Casper the ghost watched the memory of himself and his Uncle fade away. The place where they’d just been still held the little sapling. 

“You know,” said Amelia, moving towards it to gently touch one of the leaves, “it’s still there.”

“What is?”

“This tree. It’s in front of your house.”

The little ghost took a second look at the little tree, standing just below Amelia’s knee, and… 

He knew it. 

It looked different, now. It was taller, reaching just about to the second story, and sprouted bright orange leaves during the fall. On the right days, it made the yard smell like caramel. 

And looking around now, Casper noticed that their front yard around the drive was oddly bare. He usually spent so much time raking leaves when the trio demanded, but there weren’t many. Just a few old oaks and the sapling in front of him. 

“You’ll help him plant them,” she said, reading his face. “Not yet, of course. But it is planting season, and your Uncle had a year to spend with you, and he didn’t want to waste it.” 

“So- so _if_ this is real, then all those trees-”

“You and your Uncle.” She touched one of the leaves one last time before backing away, looking around. “The garden wouldn’t be so lucky. You’d still be able to see where it was,” and she pointed to the outline made up of stones, “but after all this time, everything there eventually died. It’s part of the reason your Uncle wasn’t as affected as his brothers.” And she gestured around the yard. “Everything you did together couldn’t be put away in a box and saved. You created living, growing things. It was one of the only parts of this projected world I couldn’t recreate.” 

Casper looked around again at the garden overflowing with autumn flowers. 

“He was the quietest of the three.” Amelia touched his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “He just showed affection in his own way.” 

The little ghost jerked away from her touch. “He barely shows it at all,” he grumbled. “S’why this isn’t real. He doesn’t like me back on the other side.”

She nodded, gazing at the little tree and the garden again. “Well. Whatever you believe, you have to admit; these are beautiful, aren’t they?” 

Casper bit the inside of his cheek. 

* * *

“So these must’ve been yours.” Kat picked up the pressed flowers delicately.

Stinkie turned back from the window. “Commelina communis,” he said, floating nearer. “Or Mouse Ears. When they’re livin’, they’re the same color as his eyes.”

She blinked. “Casper’s?”

“Yup.” He settled back down on the carpet, hand held out.

She dropped the flowers gently into his waiting palm and he cradled them with a cautious, fragile tenderness she’d _never_ seen in him before. Beside him, Fatso’s eyes were shining.

Something uncomfortable lodged in her chest. Where were _these_ gentle souls when Casper had needed them? Her sympathy had shifted its focus and that was unacceptable. Casper didn’t need these two - he needed his _father_ . This was all just a means to _that_ end. Had to remember that. She leaned forward, looking over the pictures again. “Okay, so you each had your own thing, that’s, you know, cool or whatever. What about _him_ ?” She jabbed a finger at the vulture lurking in the back of one of the photos. “What was _his_ deal?”

Fatso plucked up the picture. “He sure looks… comfortable, don’t he?” With a smirk, he turned the photo towards Stinkie.

“Like a wolf in a petting zoo,” his brother said, his own smirk firmly in place.

Harvey had gone back to his chair, and looked over his glasses at the ghost still camped out over by the stairs. “So he had the most trouble, er, adjusting?”

“You could say that.” Fatso nodded.

“Growing pains aplenty there,” Stinkie added. “I don’t think he wanted to be there.”

“Shocker,” Kat mumbled. 

Fatso nodded. “You’re right. He didn’t. He came to help with the house.”

“Shit, yeah.”

The youngest of the three shook his head, wincing. “He had a good thing goin’ in Boston, too. God… what was it he did again?” 

“Hell if I know.” Stinkie gestured to the box. “Somethin’ in there, maybe?”

Kat rolled her eyes, watching Stinkie float over, digging through some of the objects they’d had yet to take out. “I mean, if I had to guess, he’d be a mob boss or something.”

“Kat,” her father warned. 

“Or a hit man.”

“ _Kathleen_.” 

She went to picking at a loose thread on the carpet. 

“I actually don’t think she’s far off, doc,” said Fatso, watching his brother. “Not that he was a mob boss or nothin’. But… it was somethin’ with money. Lots of money.”

“And an occasional barely-legal scheme,” his brother said, pulling out a few scraps of newspaper, setting them to the side. “Jesus, what’s in this thing? They forgot to pack the fuckin’ kitchen sink at this point.” 

Kat leaned forward on her knees. “It’s more about feeling,” she said. “Find something that feels _right_ or _off_ or _weird_.”

He nodded, squinting into the box again. He hesitated over something. 

“Stinkie?” Fatso watched him. “You got somethin’?”

“Yeah. But… not really sure what it is…” 

When he pulled his hand out, he was holding a manilla folder. He turned it around in his hand. It was unmarked. “Huh.”

“Can I see?” Kat held out her hand, and he handed it to her. 

It was light. Whatever was inside wasn’t substantial. When she unwound the tie and opened it, taking a peek inside, she could only see about three sheets of paper. 

“What’ve you got, Kat?” Her father watched her tap the papers out, until she was holding them in her hand. 

They were yellowed by age, but preserved well enough with how they’d been kept. She skimmed the title. 

“It’s a contract,” she said. 

“For what?”

“Not sure.” She scanned it over. The letterhead at the top caught her eye. “But you were right, Stinkie. It _is_ Stretch’s.” She turned it around, tapping the official print. “From the office of Stephen McFadden.”

“That’s right!” Stinkie snapped his fingers. “He was good at all that legal stuff.”

“Lawyer, maybe?” Harvey guessed, but Fatso shook his head.

“No. Definitely not lawyer. Never liked people enough for that.” 

Harvey looked over them at his daughter. “If it’s a contract, that means it was set up between two people. If we figure out what it stipulated and who else signed, it’ll probably give enough of a clue.”

“I’m still not sure what it’s about though,” said Kat. “Something about cohabitation and property and-” She paused when she got to the end. Read it over again. “Oh,” she said, “oh you’ve _got_ to be kidding me.” 

* * *

“We still have one left.”

They were inside the house again, leaving the garden behind. 

“One _what_?”

Her smile made him nervous. “One more _Uncle_ , Casper.”

His throat tightened. “No.” 

Amelia’s smile didn’t waver. “Oh come on. You’ve come this far-”

“ _No_.”

“You don’t even know what’ll happen yet!”

“It’s him,” he said. “I know exactly what’ll happen.”

Her laughter didn’t do him any favors, and he scowled at the floor, floating after her through the quiet hallways. The memories were back in their pockets, waiting for her orders. She led him up the foyer stairs again, down the right most hallway. 

“What do you think will happen?”

“I _know_ ,” he corrected, “that he’s Uncle Stretch. Which means that he’ll yell. He’ll scream. He’ll probably give me a chore list the length of this hallway. And he’ll ignore me if I’m not in his way.” 

She let out a long, suffering sigh, gesturing him down another hall. “Well,” she said, “you’re not wrong.”

There was something thrilling from hearing that from Amelia. A little burst of something dark in his chest. 

To be right. About something.

But especially about _this_.

“You saw the way he arrived,” she began again, continuing her careful walk down the hallway, barely looking beside her to check if he was following. “He came out of obligation. For work. The house needed someone to handle the financials, and he was the only one in the family with the background for it. And the thought of losing his house-”

“I thought it was my _dad’s_ ,” Casper said, looking around the hall. “His lab is in the basement and his portraits are _everywhere_!”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Everything you see here? Everything you lived in before you came to this place? It all belonged to your Uncle.”

“ _Why_?”

“He was the eldest son in a time where that mattered more than anything. Most everything went to him by right.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s the way things were.” She shrugged. “He wasn’t going to come down when they said it was about keeping you company until he found out that your father wasn’t taking care of the estate. His Estate.”

“So…” Casper slowed, “it wasn’t for me.”

“No. Not entirely for you.”

The spark returned. The thrill of being right about _this_ . About the cruelty. The anger. The avoidance. That even though none of this could be real, at least _this_ part was the most real thing about it all. 

Amelia continued on, ignoring his silence. “Your Uncle Stephen had avoided you most of your life. He’d never really liked children - even when he _was_ one. And so living in the house with a child was… a new sort of experience.”

“So why even _show_ this.”

“Because if you’re going to make a big decision, then it’s important for you to see everything. Even when it’s not… pleasant.” She gestured him along, looking for something like she expected it to pop up any moment, pausing in the middle beside a large window. Outside, the trees in the Between Place were bare. “Here.”

“What?”

She flicked her wrist, and a memory of a young nearly-four year old boy scampered from around a bend in the hall, stopping to open up the nearest closet door, standing on tiptoes to try and reach for something at the top. Casper recognized it as one right outside of Dr. Harvey’s room. Whatever he was trying to get was too high to reach, and he clung to whatever was hanging up to leverage himself. 

It didn’t last. 

With a _thwump_ the hangers swung, and the little boy suddenly found himself swimming in two fallen suits. “Oops…” he muttered, trying to untangle his arm from a tie. 

“ _What the hell do ya’ think you’re doin’!_ ”

Casper jumped at the noise, skirting away to grab Amelia’s skirts. It was an instinct; to protect himself from the voice. 

The voice who assigned chores. 

The voice who yelled and hissed and threatened. 

The voice who burned pictures and watched memories turn to ash. 

“ _Amelia_ ,” he said, tugging at her arm. 

She didn’t move, pulling him back. 

The child on the floor of the closet, half draped in a suit jacket, jumped up, too, eyes wide, shrinking away in the fabric at the sight of his Uncle, marching down the hallway with dark eyes. 

“I don’t want to see this,” he whispered. 

“You made a deal,” she said. “Stay here, Casper.”

And so he stayed. Wincing as the boy was approached by the man. 

The other Uncle’s had seemed nicer in the memories, no matter how fake they were. But they weren’t around. Weren't here to save the boy who looked up at the man who stood over him with welling eyes. 

“ _Well_?”

“Um…” The boy looked down at the suits. “I was tryin’ to get my train from the top.” He pointed. At the top of the closet was a little blue train. “One of the maids put it away up there.”

“So ya’ tried to _ruin_ my suits? Do ya’ even know how much these-”

”I tried to climb.” He shrunk a little more. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re _sorry_?” 

The boy shrunk again. 

“I don’t want to see this,” Casper whispered again. “He’s going to hurt him. He’s going to hurt _me_.”

She squeezed his hand. “Just watch.” 

The man looked at the mess of suits. 

He looked ready to shout. Scream.

And then the man closed his eyes. Drew in the deepest breath he could, stuffing his hands against his eyes. When he blew out the breath, he looked just as angry, but the fury was at least tapered down enough and focused on the child in front of him. 

“Right,” he growled, grabbing the child by the arm, hoisting him up. “Come on. Up we go.” The boy staggered out of the suits, and they fell off him. “We need ta’ set up some ground rules,” Stephen said, wryly. “We’re gonna be livin’ together for a year. An’ if _this_ …” he reached down and plucked a tie from the floor, “is how it’s gonna be, then it ain’t gonna work out.”

“Uncle Stephen-”

“It’s _Sir_ or nothin’ to you, bulbhead,” he said, picking up another tie. 

The little boy stared up at him. 

Stephen rolled his eyes. “I’ll figure out what to do with you, but for now, c’mon.”

The boy followed along obediently and quietly as the man led him towards the office. And the ghosts followed, too, phasing through the wall to see the boy sitting in the awkwardly large chair across from the desk where Stephen was sitting himself down in front of the typewriter. 

“Listen, kid. You really ain’t gonna see me much around here. Unfortunately, my _darling brother_ decided to leave a whole shit-ton of issues for me to clean up, and when I’m not filing those away, I’m workin’ to try and keep _my_ roof over _his_ kid’s head.” He shuffled through his drawers, grabbing a fresh stack of paper. “And I can’t do _that_ if I have to keep divin’ in to keep you outt’a trouble.” 

“But I didn't mean-”

“Qui _-et_.”

Casper snapped his mouth shut. 

The man leaned back in his chair. “I make deals, kid. S’what I do. An’ I been doin’ it long enough to know that all the ‘sorrys’ and ‘I’ll do bettahs’ in this world don’t mean shit if it ain’t down in ink. So we’re puttin’ this down in ink.”

The little boy watched, a mixture of fear and curiosity on his face.

“That way, if they don’t listen and try to break the rules then they deserve whatever's comin’ their way.” He pulled the typewriter closer to himself, sliding paper into the machine, beginning to type. “And I ain’t livin’ a year in this house with you if we ain’t got a contract.” 

Amelia snorted. 

Casper looked up at her, gaping. “Why are you _laughing_!”

“He thinks he can get a child to behave with legal papers.” Amelia laughed again, watching the man typing away. “You don’t think it’s funny?”

“It’s messed up.”

“It is,” she agreed. “It’s mean. And it’s awful. And it’s cold. But it’s also _absurd._ And it was all he _knew_.”

In front of them, the man had apparently finished his mad typing, and was drawing the paper out. He slid it towards the boy. “Here ya’ go, kid.”

“Um…” the boy drew his knees up. “I can’t read big words yet.” 

The man muttered something under his breath that sounded like _of fuckin’ course_ and turned it around towards him again. 

From where he floated, Casper could see the title at the top. 

AGREEMENT OF COHABITATION

“It lays out some basic rules here for you to follow while I’m here in this house.” The man jabbed at a spot further down. “You leave me be. In the mornin’. At night. An especially when I’m workin’. The less I see of you, the better. You want a roof over your head and food in your belly? You hear me on the phone, you walk the other way, you got it?”

“... Yes?”

“Yes what?”

“Yessir?”

“That’s better.”

The ghost of Casper stiffened, fists against his sides. 

“This one? Says you clean up after yourself. Ms. Danvers and the rest have enough to do already without following you around all day, pickin’ up yer toys.”

“Yessir.”

“And here?” He drew his finger down the list, choosing one of the hastily written bullets. “Party A, _that’s you_ , will keep his grubby little hands off my suits. Because they’re made in Italy, and they’re worth more than your little life. Ruin one, and you’ll be packin’ your bags.” 

“Yessir,” said Casper, quietly.

Stephen picked up a pen, tapping the last section. “And right _here_ are consequences. You know what those are?”

Casper shook his head.

“Means you’re liable for any and all injury, material or otherwise, that occurs from a breach of the terms herein.”

“What?”

“If you break a rule, you’re gonna get punished. Capiche?”

His nephew’s eyes widened. Fear sparked behind them. 

His Uncle pushed the contract closer. From there, the two ghosts were able to read;

**AGREEMENT OF COHABITATION**

On October 10th, 1886, we, the cohabitors named below, sign into an agreement to jointly occupy the property known as Whipstaff Manor.

The family members entering into this agreement are CASPER McFADDEN (hereby referred to as Party A) and STEPHEN McFADDEN (hereby referred to as Party B).

**SCHEDULE:**

Party A will agree to leave Party B alone while Party B is working.

**PERSONAL PROPERTY**

Party A must also agree to respect Party B’s personal property. This includes suits, shoes, ties, jackets, vests, etc. Party A must understand that the suits are Italian and will keep his grubby hands off.

**CLEANING**

Party A will agree to clean up after himself as the maids are not responsible for bending backwards at his every whim. 

**CONSEQUENCES**

Party A agrees that consequences for not following the above sections will include any and all of the following tasks; Scrubbing floors, washing windows, cleaning dishes, etc. 

Party A will agree to follow the rules set by Party B, and acknowledges that any and all punishments (listed or pending) can be executed upon Party A.

We, the undersigned, agree to the above terms.

**Stretch McFadden ** **October 10th, 1886**

“You sign here,” Stephen said, handing his pen over to the boy. “Make it official. An’ next time you try anythin’ like that…'' He jabbed his fingers down on the paper. “Consequences are on you. Got it?” 

The living Casper nodded solemnly and took the pen from his Uncle, drawing his name out carefully in bold, capital letters. 

C A S P E R

“Look!” The child grinned. “I signed something! S’my name!”

“Mazel Tov.” Stephen grumbled, grabbing the pen back, jamming it into a drawer. 

“So I can go play now?”

“Hold on, kid.” He stuck out his hand. “We gotta shake on it.”

The boy stared at his hand. “Why?”

“It’s what men do when they make a deal.” 

“ _Why_?”

Stretch groaned, rolling his eyes. “Hell if I know. Just the way of things. So.” He stuck out his hand. “You with me, kid?”

If Casper hadn’t been holding onto Amelia’s skirts, he would have fallen right through the floor.

 _It’s not real_ , he told himself, holding tighter, the world around him feeling smaller and smaller. _It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real_.

The little boy grabbed the hand back, grinning. “I’m with you.”


	8. The Offence and the Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Stephen snaps.
> 
> Then his brothers snap.
> 
> Then the housekeeper snaps.
> 
> And in the end, something ELSE snaps.

Amelia had to take Casper to sit down on a chaise in one of the rooms down the hallway. 

He was shaking, eyes gleaming, pressing his shaking fists hard into his eyes. 

“Take a moment,” she said. “We’ve got time.”

“ _That wasn’t real_.”

“Casper-”

“It wasn’t,” he barked, fists pressing hard enough to see spots. “You don’t understand! My dad- he _always said that to me_. I heard it!”

“Cas-”

“He showed up in _dreams_ ! Amelia! It wasn’t… it wasn’t _him_ . It can’t be _him_.”

She sighed, sitting down beside him on the chaise, rubbing his back. “I know this is… disappointing..” 

He barked out a sarcastic laugh. 

“But disappointing or not, it doesn’t make what we’re seeing less real.”

“Says you.”

She rubbed his back again. 

Casper finally pulled his fists off his eyes. “My dad said it,” he told her. “I know he did.”

“Okay.”

“And my dad will be _back_.”

Amelia smiled. “He will be. Yes. But that’s another memory. And I never like going out of order.”

He rolled his eyes, slumping back against the chaise’s armrest. “So we have to see _more_ of him.”

“I’m afraid we do.” 

At his withering look, she reached out and tweaked his nose. “Your Uncle Strephen…” she sounded tired just saying his name. “He is a character, isn’t he?”

“That’s one way to say it.”

“He tends to lean towards the aggressive side.” 

“He’s _mean_.”

“He is,” she agreed. Her smile was back, but it had more venom than before. “He didn’t like me at all. He made it _very_ clear while we were here. It wasn’t hard to see him leave.”

“He doesn’t like anyone.”

She snorted. “Yes. He made that very clear, too. Out of the three of them, he changed the least. Which is all stubbornness, if you’re wondering.”

Which sounded exactly like his Uncle. 

“So he didn’t like me.”

“He didn’t want to come in the first place, remember?” she said. When he gave her a look, she held up her hands. “I told you that I’d only show you the truth. And that is, unfortunately, a part of it.” She pushed herself up to stand, moved to the hallway. The memory of his uncle strode past and then, a beat later, the boy appeared, tagging along after him. 

At Amelia’s insistent beckoning, Casper rose reluctantly and joined her in the doorway. With a scowl, he watched the man disappear into the office and close the door before the boy could reach it. “Great,” he muttered. “This is really how I wanted to spend my day.”

“His entire life was business. And he was good at what he did. Absolutely cutthroat. _But_ he was also an eldest son and brother, and that wasn’t a position he took lightly, either. He inherited the house and the family.”

“But he didn’t want to.”

“No,” she said, fighting a smile. “He did _not_.”

“Because of me....”

“More or less.”

Casper glared down the hall at the boy, sitting with his back against the office door, waiting. “He never liked me.”

“He didn’t know what to do with you. You were a child. He had no experience with kids.” The office door opened and the boy tipped backwards into the room, laughing. Long legs stepped over him without a word. “He barely got along with _adults_. His entire job was about financially destroying people. He was successful where he was in Boston, working the early days of the stock market. You think he’d be good at… this?” She stepped further out into the hall, watching the man march down in the opposite direction as the boy fumbled to sit up in the office doorway, standing and moving to follow where his Uncle had gone. “He thought that he’d be able to ignore you. He just didn’t know that kids don’t work that way. But that’s what he had Franklin for.”

From further down the hall, there was the call of a Boston accent saying, _you’re here to do one thing, so go take care of it!_

Casper watched as Franklin appeared at the end of the hall. The boy squealed, glad for attention, and was scooped up by waiting arms. “Hey’a there, Cas!”

“I was tryin’ to say hi to Uncle Stephen!”

“He’s busy right now. How about we play pirates, yeah?”

“Yeah!’

Casper glowered down the hallway as the memories faded. “So he ignored me and pawned me off onto my other Uncles.”

“More or less.”

“ _Great_.” 

She let out a heavy breath. “Your other Uncles did their best to keep you two apart, I think. They knew what he was like, and they didn’t want you getting hurt, and were afraid that he’d be the one to do the hurting.” 

Something in Casper tightened. “... did he?”

Her expression shifted to disappointment. “Yes,” she said. “He did.” 

* * *

“I can’t believe he made a _contract_ with a _child_.”

“To be fair, it is on brand.” Fatso was scanning it over, glaring at a few of the words. The paper was older now, and a little yellowed. “God. Stinkie. Look at this. He made the kid agree to _consequences_. How old was Casper then?”

Stinkie glared at his eldest brother when he said, “almost four.” 

Stretch wasn’t paying attention, staring at the wall, wincing. 

“Do you think it has anything to do with how he treats Casper now?” Kat watched them both, craning her neck to get another look. 

“Nah. It was just how he was with the kid. And how he was with everythin’.” The middle ghost blinked, remembering something so suddenly that he had to reach out and grab Fatso’s arm. 

“What!”

“That’s what he did!”

“Who-”

“The contracts,” Stinkie breathed, turning towards Harvey, gesturing. “Contracts, money, clients- that was his _life_! That’s what he did! Something with contracts and _money_.”

“Stockbroker, maybe,” Harvey said. “It would make a lot of sense.”

Fatso’s eyes widened, nodding at their therapist. “Think yer right, Doc. An’ outside’a weddin’s and funeral’s, we hardly ever saw ‘im.”

“S’right!” Stinkie nodded, darting a glare over at their oldest brother. “Didn’t write, didn’t call...couldn’t be bothered with _anything_ if it wasn’t makin’ ‘im a buck.”

Back by the stairs, Stretch seemed not to hear him.

“Think that year was the most time we’d spent together since we left home,” Fatso said.

“So you were right.”

Fatso looked up at the teenage girl. “What?”

“You were right,” she said again. She was leaning over the pictures, looking at the backs of them. Taking time to flip each and every one over, she tapped the little inscriptions on the back. “You were there for one year. The first one is here…” And she pointed to the photo they’d found at the beginning, of the small boy surrounded by two kindly faces and a vulture. “It’s in October, 1866. A few of them have months, see? And the last one is here.” 

She pointed to another photo in the middle, this one of Casper sitting between Fatso and Stinkie on a couch, wearing what looked like wool bathing suits. “It’s on September 28th, 1887. And then that’s it. Nothing else.” 

With a heavy _whumph_ of a breath, she sat back on her knees.

Fatso nodded slowly. “S’hard on this end, top.” He tapped the side of his head. “There’s not much else here but the year we spent together. I’m trying. But…” 

She picked through the pictures, looking for anything she could show him. “Well. At least there’s something to be said about _that year_ and a certain someone. I don’t know about you, but there’s a definite trend here.”

Kat chose two pictures at random, holding them out for the little group before her to see. “It’s sort of like the most miserable game of Where’s Waldo. Or a really shitty eye-spy.”

“ _Language_ ,” Harvey said.

Off to the side, Stretch hissed, clutching his head. Stinkie rolled his eyes. 

“Sorry.” Kat laid the photos down. “But seriously. It’s a pattern, isn’t it?”

Fatso leaned closer. “Oh yeah. Jeez. It’s in more than a few of ‘em.”

The pictures she’d chosen were of Casper with one or both of the Uncles before her. Franklin and Casper on the porch, Casper and Samuel in the garden, the two of them with Casper sitting in the parlor - the little boy holding a train out for Franklin to see. 

It took a minute to notice the other figure. 

Standing just outside of the shot, eyeing them with a distant coldness, was Stephen. 

“He looks like he directs funeral homes,” she said.

Samuel snorted. “He always looked like that. Acted like it, too. It was the suits-”

“Jesus, the suits,” Franklin muttered. “It was all about the appearance. He spent more on those stupid suits than anything. Had them imported from somewhere.”

Samuel snapped his fingers. “Italy!”

“Oh wow.” Kat looked over the pictures again. “He doesn’t look ready to look after a kid.”

“That’s because it wasn’t what he was there to do.” The words fell out of Fatso, and he winced.

“Just let it happen,” said Harvey. “Go with whatever it’s telling you.”

The ghost nodded, screwing up his eyes and drawing in a long breath. He held it, and then let it out slowly. “It wasn’t what he was there to do,” he said again. When he opened his eyes, there was a new clarity to the way he looked at the pictures. He reached out to pull one closer, glaring down at it. “I was so angry at him. I remember that. I was so angry, because I was there to watch the kid for a year. I mean, we all were, but he refused. Said he had other stuff to do.”

“Something about the house,” Stinkie nodded, memories following close behind. “Money. The house. Jesus… I can’t remember ‘xactly, but somethin’ wasn’t workin’ out. And he came to fix it.”

“Why?” Kat tilted her head. “Did Casper’s dad ask?”

In the background, Stretch was holding his head. His hands shook, fingers digging into the crest above his eyes.

Harvey looked up over the group to watch him. 

Watched his mouth move soundlessly, forming words he couldn’t quite read. 

Watched his eyes screw shut. 

“No,” Fatso shook his head. “Wasn’t J.T.’s house to take care of.”

She nearly fell backwards onto the carpet, wobbling on her knees. “ _What_? But I thought-”

“He was the eldest son. Means that he got the largest cut of it all.”

“Land, estate, you name it, he got it.” Stinkie glared at his eldest brother. “It was how it was back then.”

“Stretch made this whole big deal of it. He was comin’ just to work on the house. There were some issues, and he was gonna sort them. Make sure that the house stayed in his name. And he decided he didn’t have time for the kid. Hated him enough because he was livin’ in _his_ house. But beyond that…”

The ghost in question grabbed a hold of a nearby shelf, gagging in pain, gasping for breath. The group before them didn’t notice, carrying on like nothing was happening. 

“Don’t try to press it,” said Harvey, looking between him and the ghost just beyond, gripping his armrest in case he had to jump up and help his patient again. “The more you do that, the farther it’ll fall away. What do you _know_?”

“Only that he was the oldest,” Fatso said, “so the house was his, and J.T. lived here. But… but then something _happened_ . Stretch did somethin’... And I remember. I remember that it was… it was _bad_.” 

Kat swallowed. She turned towards the ghost in the corner, but he was still working through his breaths, turned away from their little group. “How bad?” she asked quietly, turning back. 

“Real bad, kid,” said Fatso. 

“Real, real bad.” Stinkie agreed. “Bad enough to start a fight. Bad enough to split up the entire family.” 

There was a long silence, the two ghosts sitting in their Forgetting, trying their hardest to pry memories loose from the shadows. 

Whatever the memories were, they wouldn’t come, and they were left in the quiet and the heavy hurt left behind by an unknown tragedy. 

Fatso was the first to speak again, shaking off the cloying feeling of betrayal. “Anyway, whatever reason he was there, he didn’t want nothin’ to do with Casper. The way he handled work and us was explosive. We didn’t want nothin’ like that affecting the kid. So we kept the two of them apart when we could. Because Stretch made it clear. He didn’t want nothin’ to do with him.”

“And it shows,” Stinkie affirmed, holding up a picture. 

The boy in the picture was on the floor of the room where they now kept the TV, with a miniature railroad sprawled out before him. Off to one side, in a wingback chair, long legs and a thin torso were visible behind a newspaper.

In another, the boy was tossing a ball in the driveway. Behind him, out of focus on the porch, a skeletal figure leaned on a pillar, cigarette smoke curling around him.

“Did it work?” Kat asked. “I mean… did you manage to keep them apart? Keep him from doing anything?”

Fatso’s mouth was set in a firm line. He turned his gaze to Stinkie, who looked just about the same. “No, kid. We didn’t. And the kid… he paid for that.” 

In the background, the eldest ghost froze. 

He spun around, looking for something that wasn’t there. And before Harvey could ask, he’d already flown from the room vanishing away through the library doors.

That was enough to draw at least some attention. Kat looked over, brow crooked. “Wonder what his deal is.”

“Does it matter?” Stinkie scoffed. “Good riddance. Ain’t any help here nohow.” 

Harvey said nothing.

* * *

Casper grabbed Amelia’s dress when the vulture of a man, striding into the room, bent over and barked out a curse;

“ _Fuck_!” 

“Stephen?” Franklin looked up from the map he was helping Casper color. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” His brother said again, stumbling back. “Oh _fuck, fuck, fuck_ -”

“Watch it!” The youngest said, standing. “The kid-”

“ _Fucking can it, Franklin_ ,” the man snarled, shaking out his leg. “What the _hell_ was-”

He scanned the carpet manically for what had hurt him, looking like a wounded animal stuck in a trap. 

Casper, beside Amelia, grabbed her arm tighter. 

He’d seen it first. 

“Oh…” he whispered. “Oh _no_ …”

“Casper?”

“Oh _no_ ,” he whispered again, fixed on a spot in the carpet. Slowly, very slowly, he extended an arm out to point towards what had drawn his eye. 

His Uncle found it at the same time, reaching down to snatch it up. “Oh you’re _kidding_ me.”

“Stephen…” Franklin warned. 

“Oh you're _fuckin’ kiddin’ me_.”

In his hand, standing innocuously at attention, was a little tin toy soldier. 

The little boy was on his feet, too, quickly scrambling forward. “I’m sorry, sir!” His voice was rising. “I forgot-”

“You _forgot_ -” His uncle was yelling now, anger fresh and beating. “I _told_ you! I told you-”

The little boy shrank backwards from the noise, frightened tears brimming. 

Franklin was beside him in a moment, holding out a hand. “Take a breath. The kid didn’t mean nothin’-”

“Oh don’t _you start_.”

“He’s _three_.”

“Don’t mean he can’t _learn_ what happens when you _pull shit like this_.” And he marched up to the kid, violet eyes blazing. 

“Stephen-”

“ _Can it, Franklin. Unless you wanna join him_.”

Franklin swallowed and stepped away, just as Stephen grabbed the kid by the shoulder and gave him a shove towards the library door. “Kitchen! _Now!_ ” 

The kid was breathing too fast, too hard, stumbling over himself to rush towards the kitchens, his Uncle at pace behind him, feet pounding the foyer floor. 

The ghost, still clinging to his guide’s arm, tugged it close to his chest. The world was closing up. His breaths too quick, too fast, too little. “I don’t want to see!”

“Casper-” Amelia began, but even she was hesitating, watching him closely. 

He shook his head fast, eyes shutting. The dark didn’t make it better. He was being swallowed whole. There was fire burning, and he was turning to ash inside it. “I don’t wanna see this.” His words, coming from a place he couldn’t feel, shook. He barely realized he was crying until he tasted the salt, and it only made him press harder against her to keep himself from dropping away. “I don’t wanna see this I don’t wanna see this-”

Amelia brought her free arm up to wrap around him, squeezing. “Okay, okay. We’ll stay here.”

But staying put didn’t mean they couldn’t hear the shouting. Or the crying.

“Is he-” Casper wheezed. “Is he-”

“He didn’t hit you,” she said quickly.

“How do you-”

“I promise.”

He hid his face against her side, shaking.

She lowered them to a window seat, holding her arm around him still. He closed his eyes tight, but the yelling didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. The memory of his sobbing rose from the stairwells and filled the halls and it tumbled around Casper and burned and burned and burned. 

“This isn’t real,” he whispered, words catching. “Not real, not real, not real-”

There was another furious yell from below. A child’s terrified apologies. 

Casper pressed his face harder against the red dress. His fingers shook. 

“He’s making you do the dishes from lunch,” Amelia said gently. “It was the only thing immediately in front of him.” She rubbed his back. “You were afraid. You were scared. It was _wrong_. But he didn’t lay a hand, Casper.”

Another shout. He held tighter. “ _But it hurts_ …” His chest ached and twisted. His breaths stuck beneath the knots. “ _Why does it hurt_.”

“Because fear is painful. Especially when it’s by someone we trust.” 

“I _don’t_ ,” he choked. “I _don’t_ trust him.” He wound his hands tight, and a sob collected and burst out of him. “I _hate_ him,” he said. “And I want my _dad!_ ”

Amelia pulled him closer. 

Casper cried. For his dad. For the scared boy. For himself. For something he didn’t know that hurt and burned and twisted. 

He cried until the yelling downstairs faded, and the house was left to its watchful silence. 

And when he stopped crying, and struggled to breathe again, Amelia didn’t make them move. So they sat there in silence, her hand rubbing a steady rhythm on his back. 

* * *

“There are more memories to see.”

Casper didn’t lift his head. He was exhausted. Wrung dry. His face was blotted and his eyes stung. 

“Casper?”

“I… I don’t want to.”

“We made a deal, dear.”

“I don’t care.” He moved away from her, rubbing his face with the back of his hand. “I know what I want to do.”

“That’s fine.”

“I _hate_ him.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“I hate him. And I don’t want to go back.” 

She squeezed his hand. “You said it yourself. You don’t think it’s real. So what’s the harm-”

“ _No_ ,” he said. “ _That_ … That was real.”

“You can tell.”

He nodded, hand drifting to his chest. “I felt that. I know… I know that was real. And I know he hurt me.”

“He did, in a way.” She rubbed his back again. “But it doesn’t go without its consequences. And I should think that those are worth seeing, too.”

He considered it quietly, staring at his hands. 

“You can make whatever decision you want. But I know you’re brave, because you chose to come here and make a big decision. And I know you can handle just a little bit more. So.” She stood, holding out a hand. “Can you try?”

It took a moment. Casper looked up at her, eyes still stinging. His head rang with the sounds of a terrified child. 

He breathed in deep and took her hand. “Okay,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Okay…” 

* * *

The house was at a standstill. Casper could feel it when Amelia pulled him from the library. It was dark. The grandfather clock in the hallway, changing with every new memory before them, had long chimed 8 pm. 

Casper jumped when a voice broke the quiet. Franklin was at the top of the steps, moving down two at a time. “You find him?”

“Not yet.”

Casper turned. Samuel was coming from a hallway by them, looking up at his brother. “Checked the billiards room. The closets-”

“Playroom's empty, too.” He reached the bottom step and grabbed his coat and hat along the way. “I’m checkin’ the grounds. Do a sweep. Kid likes it out there.”

“Jesus…” Samuel rubbed his face. “This place is too damn big. I’ll go check the dining room and the parlor.”

Franklin nodded, slipping the coat on in one smooth motion. “Thanks. How long do we wait before callin’ the cops?”

“Search me.”

“Fuck,” Franklin sighed. He was a step from the front door when it opened and Stephen stepped in. 

Both men stopped.

Both men scowled.

“Enjoy your smoke break?” the younger asked darkly.

“What’s up your ass?”

“We still can’t find ‘im.”

Something flickered across Stephen’s face before he shrugged it away. “He’ll turn up. He’s gotta man up at some point.”

Samuel stepped closer, brow furrowed. “Jesus Christ, Stephen - he’s _three!_ ”

“So that means he gets away with-”

“It _means_ ,” Franklin said, giving the eldest brother a hard _jab_ on the shoulder. “That he’s gonna make stupid mistakes.”

“Ya know,” Samuel added. “Like _kids_ do. And this? It was nothing. _You_ exploded.”

Stephen took a step back, drawing himself up to his full height. “Just ‘cause the two ‘a you are too soft to-”

“Don’t even!” Franklin cut him off, taking a step forward, closing the distance the elder had put between them. “I should’a said somethin’ before, but I’m sayin’ it now and you can be _damn_ sure I’ll be sayin’ it again when the time comes.” He squared his broad shoulders. “ _That?_ Back there? Was _not_ okay.”

The hard-set scowl on Stephen’s face faltered, reset itself more firmly.

Samuel drew up next to Franklin. “Could hear ‘im crying all the way upstairs, Stephen. Almost thought Pa was back from the dead.”

“Hey, hey!” The long spine curled, the scowl vanished. “I didn’t touch-”

“Maybe not _this_ time,” Franklin said. He shook his head. “I swear to god, Stephen, after what that bastard put us through? Put _you_ through? Don’t think I haven’t noticed all this _yes sir, no sir_ business. Lockin’ the kid out. Tellin’ him he ain’t bein’ enough of a man.”

“But I didn’t-!” He was growing smaller. The house around him was too large. 

And for a moment-

(For a tiny, heartbeat of a moment)

-Casper knew how he felt

Franklin finished buttoning his coat, taking his scarf from the rack. “Don’t always need fists ta’ hurt a kid.”

“I- You-” Stephen swallowed, eyes hard. He gritted his teeth, voice rough. “I _wouldn’t_ -”

The biggest of the three shoved past roughly. “Keep lookin’, Sammy. He’s gotta be _somewhere._ ” The front door opened, and the room was filled with cold for a moment before it closed. 

Stephen turned quickly towards the only brother left in the room.

“Sammy, you know I wouldn’t-”

But his last brother left him in the foyer without another word.

And the man stood alone. 

The clock ticked on. 

“What happened…” Casper watched him standing there, staring at the closed door. 

She put her finger to her lips and pointed to where Stephen was standing. He glowered at the door, trying hard to glare. 

His trembling fists told another story. 

With a gruff noise, he turned on his heel and stalked through, down the hall that Casper knew lead to the kitchens. 

Amelia gestured him on, and they followed. 

Stephen was already there when they arrived, leaning on the counter, and was in the process of being ignored by the housekeeper. 

“Nell, come _on_.”

Though he towered over her by more than a foot, he shied away as Ms. Danvers pushed past him, a pot in her hands. She shoved it into a lower cabinet, standing up to grab another from where they were drying beside the sink. 

“I didn’t… I mean the boys thought I’d- thought I’d… you know. But I didn’t. I _wouldn’t_ -”

“Well congratulations for that, _Mr. McFadden._ ” Ms. Danvers snarled. The table was still set from the staff’s dinner. She took the plates, stacking them and dropping them into the sink, keeping her back to the man who trailed behind. 

He swallowed and began to pick up the glasses. “Nell-”

“ _Don’t you dare_ .” She dropped the last plate, and it splashed water onto the counter. “Not after how you arrived, not after all this - don’t you _dare_ think you get to _Nell_ me.” She grabbed one of the plates, scrubbing it furiously. “We aren’t children, and you aren’t kind enough to use that name. It’s Ms. Danvers or you can leave my kitchen.” 

He went very still and very quiet, watching her scrub too hard at the dish. 

“Ms. Danvers.” He said the name like it burned his tongue. “They’re already on my back-”

“ _Good_. They should be.”

He gingerly put the glasses by her elbow. She took them and roughly added them to the soapy water while he went back to collect the silverware from the table, tail between his legs. “They said I was like my Pa’.”

Ms. Danvers laid a clean dish on a towel on the counter to dry. 

“Said that they saw the old man come back from the dead.”

A second dish was added to the towel. It clattered against the first. He flinched. 

“Really wasn’t hopin’ to hear about him again. Just… I mean…” He picked up a serving bowl, holding carefully, twisting it around in his hands. “You know what he did. What he was like.”

A third dish. 

He walked over, setting the bowl beside her. “You know I _wouldn’t-_ ”

He jumped back when she grabbed the bowl and threw it into the water. 

“ _Do I know that_ , Mr. McFadden?”

He stuttered away. Suds clung to his jacket. 

“Did you _honestly_ come down here just to try and… try and get me to make you feel _better_ ? Tell you that you’re nothing like _him_?”

“ _No_ -"

“I know you, or, at least I _thought_ I did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean!”

“It means that you used to be a righteous _prick_ . And you were gruff; sharp for the sake of being sharp. And you were _good_ at it. A burlap sack full of feral cats on the _best_ of days. But at least you were all those things and _principled_ _._ A good brother. A good boy. Shaping up to wear your name well when you left this house. I knew _that_ man. But hell if I know the man who came back.” She shook her head. “What happened tonight? That was something else. And I think you know it. Or else you wouldn’t be down here, in my kitchens, asking me these stupid questions like we were in a goddamn confessional.” 

“Hold on-”

“And if you’re suddenly so anxious to hear what I have to say, then fine. You’ll _hear_.”

“Nell-”

“You’ll _hear_ ,” she barked, startling him back as she spun to face him . “And you’ll fucking _listen_.”

The man swallowed, chest rising and falling in time with the clock in the room. 

“We _both know_ what that man was like.” She braced herself with one hand on the counter. “Or have you forgotten who you turned to when you were too proud to lick your wounds in front of Franklin and Samuel? And thinking you could come down here and do it again after how you arrived?” 

He swallowed, opened his mouth, but she silenced him with a look.

“I really thought that whatever rotten genes were in him had skipped a generation or two or got burnt away with all the whiskey. I had hope! But then you show up again, 21 years later, acting like you can’t be bothered to look my way, and I was hurt, but it was fine. I would do my job. You would do yours. But _after that_?” She gestured wildly around the room. “After I come down and see- see _that child_ in _my_ kitchens, being bullied and terrorized? And for what? For a _toy_?” She laughed bitterly. “And you slink down here asking _me_ for absolution? _Honestly?_ ” 

He stared at her mutely, grasping the counter. 

“And putting _all that aside_ ,” the housekeeper kept on, “putting aside your father, and the hell he put you boys through. Even if I didn’t think you behaved like him — and that is its own debate — it wouldn’t _matter_. Because whatever I saw lording over that child was its own beast.” 

“I wasn’t-” But he faltered, words fading. 

“You made some really top notch choices tonight. And god forbid that _child_ up there has to remember you the same way you remember _him_ ? Well.” She took a breath, wiping her hands on her apron. When she looked up again, her amber eyes were tired and sad. “You are _building him_ his own ghosts, Stephen.” 

From the doorway, Casper watched from halfway behind Amelia, eyes wide. Watched as the man floundered, struggled for words that wouldn’t come. Watched as the woman worked _incredibly_ hard to ignore him as she continued her work.

“Nell…” He leaned on the counter, bending to meet her eyes. He looked like a stranded man calling out to a passing ship. “Nell. I'm tryin' here. But. But I- I don’t _know children_ . I don’t know _how_ to- I mean.” He ruffled his hair, tugging at the strands. “You know me! _I don’t know what to do with a kid_! S’why I never had ‘em!” 

“Well isn’t _that_ too bad,” she snarled back. “Because you’re here now. And he doesn’t have _anyone_ except for you and your brothers.”

“But they _know_ what they’re doing!” He scrubbed his face. “I know _adults_ . An’ I know _business_ . I don’t know… _this_.”

She went back to the dishes.

He took a chance and moved closer. “I’m tryin’ my best.”

Ms. Danvers continued to ignore him, scrubbing furiously at the bowl in the sink. She sniffled. The man beside her reached out, but she jerked away, drawing her narrow shoulders in tight. “ _Don’t_.”

“Nell-”

“ _Ms. Danvers_ . I have to watch it, you know. And it’s not just you. It’s them, too. I have to watch it _all_.”

He swallowed. “It’s not… it’s not bad for him, Nell. He’s got Franklin an’ Sammy. They’re not cantankerous old bastards like I am. They’re all over the tyke-”

“But it’ll end.” 

Silence. 

She scrubbed harder, reaching up to wipe off her face with her cuffed sleeve. “You’re here for a year. _One year_. That’s _it_. And when your time is up, you can leave. Pack your bags, walk away, and go back to your lives the way you want to live them. But that boy _can’t_.” 

There was more silence, then. 

Casper reached out and grabbed Amelia’s elbow. His chest stung. 

The housekeeper stared at the sudsy water. The water softly sloshed. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you’re not like your father. Maybe you’re like your brother.” 

His gaze flew up, hackles rising. 

Casper drew in a sharp breath of his own.

She didn’t seem to notice, hands half sunken in the sink. “J.T. never hit him, either. Rarely even raised his voice. But…” She turned on the water, washing the suds off the bowl. “It’s all the same. All four of you. This whole _child rearing_ thing is a game for money and power and control until that child opens its mouth, and it turns out -surprise!- they have _needs_ and _wants_ and _mistakes to make_ , and then it’s off to Prague with business partners to wait a few more years until the child is a little more _bearable_. A little _less_ _of a child._ ” 

Stephen swallowed. The fight was draining. Slipping away like water down a sink.

“But he isn’t an _asset_ to add to your portfolio . And he isn’t some client, either . You don’t get to sign a piece of paper and agree to terms. And you don’t get to back out when there’s a breach of terms . And you don’t get to act out when things don’t go your way. Because this isn’t a _business deal_ . Someone's _life_ is in the middle, and it sure as hell isn’t a toy you can step on.”

She swept off the counter, turning her back on him to stack the dishes into the cabinets. “You might not _know children_ , Stephen, but that child depends on you figuring it the fuck out. At least for the one year that you can stand to be back in this house.” She ripped off her apron, stuffing it beneath the sink. She rose, and straightened her dress. 

He winced away. “Maybe,” he began roughly. “Maybe we can talk to Franklin-”

“No.” She shook her head, wiping her hands off on the towel. “He doesn’t need anyone staying out of pity. It’s the last thing a child ever needs. Someone staying because they _have_ to. They know. And it hurts just as bad as any hand.”

He leaned back against the counter, hands folded in front of him, eyes on the floor. 

For a long moment they stood in silence.

And then-

“So what do I _do?”_

“No one in this house pays me enough to give parenting lessons, although they _should_ ,” she snipped, smoothing back the strands of fair hair that had fallen loose around her face. “I should think an apology is in order. And if you’re willing to give it - freely, _sincerely_ \- then there _might_ be a little boy up in the attic willing to hear it.” 

"Thank you," he breathed "We've all been lookin' an'... Thank you."

"It's been his spot since the beginning. _Don't_ let him know I said that." She crossed to the icebox and pulled out a little blue bowl , taking a spoon and sticking it down. “I’d take this with you,” she said, holding it out. “Sugar is the best olive branch for children. There’s your _free tip_ on parenting. Anything else and I begin to charge.”

“Thank you, Nell.”

She dropped the little cup on the counter, closing the doors to the ice box, her back to him. “I’m just doing my job, Mr. McFadden. You do yours.” 

“Right,” he said, nodding, watching her. “Right.”

“One year,” she said, going back to the sink, pulling the plug and glaring at the draining water. “One year. That’s all you have. Make sure he remembers you well.” 

Casper watched. Watched the man step away. Watched the woman turn off the lights. Watched the memory fall quiet. 

“Does he go?” Casper looked towards the empty doorway. 

Amelia nodded towards it. “Should we find out?”

Casper followed her away. 

* * *

It wasn’t hard to find the man. He towered and strode and took up space, like a smudge against the walls of Whipstaff Manor. And so they did find him. On the second floor, already taking the stairs to the third. 

And they followed. 

“This was your hiding place,” Amelia told him. “Always. For every time.”

“You mean there’d be more.” Casper’s anger was starting to poke its head back through the curiosity. He tamped it down, correcting himself. “You mean. If this is _real_ there’d be more?”

“Oh yes.” Amelia nodded. “Not as… explosive. Not all the time. It would be small disagreements, too. Angry words. Spats over forgotten chores or toys left around or bedtime rebellions. The occasional hiccup. They’d all wind you back up here after your Uncle snapped.”

He glared at the floor. “Which was most of the time, I bet.” 

“In terms my husband would understand,” she continued, “he fumbled, and he dropped.” She winked. “I was a Raiders fan and he used a lot of sports puns in therapy.” She lifted her dress up to her ankles, climbing the stairs, and ignored Casper’s well timed eye-roll. “But, if you’ll excuse the extended metaphor, rather than sit on the bench all season, he kept getting back in the game.”

“I _don’t_ excuse it,” mumbled Casper, stomping at a loose floorboard on the stairs. 

“Fine. He kept trying. How’s that? He wasn't sure what he was doing, or if he was doing it right, but he kept _trying_.”

“S’not real.”

“Even so. It’s important to see it.” And she reached the top of the stairs. “Especially because it’s the first.” 

It took a moment to find the boy. Even the man, standing at the top of the steps, surrounded by boxes and chests and furs and tucked away furniture, needed time to spot him. 

But he was there. His blonde hair poking out above a few piles of books in the corner against a window. All the light came from the windows and the moon beyond them, making the attic glow a hazy blue.

The man stood very still at the top of the steps, unmoving.

"See," Casper snipped. "He doesn't want to."

"He's scared," said Amelia. 

Casper scoffed. "He scares _me_."

"And it couldn't be the other way around, too?" 

"No. It _couldn't_."

She sighed. "I'm not expecting you to forgive him-"

"I don't," he growled, thinking of his Uncle back home. The burning pictures. The ash. His father's face drifting. "It's why I'm here and why I decided. Because he's still Uncle Stretch and he's still doing _that_."

"And that's fine. You don't have to. But we do have to listen, because-"

"I _know_. I made a deal." He glared at a mothball by his foot. 

She nodded, and settled into a chair draped with a dusty sheet. The dust went undisturbed. The little ghost came to sit on the armrest beside her, arms folded across his chest.

At the top of the steps, Stephen swallowed thickly, and cleared his throat.

There was a frightened gasp and one of the piles of books toppled over. “Go ‘way,” the little voice shook, “... _sir_.”

The man flinched, spine curling. “‘Fraid I can’t do that, short stuff. Your uncles an’ Ms. Danvers - they’ll eat me alive if ya don’t come back down with me.”

“ _Good_.”

Over on the chair, the ghost of Casper blinked, watched the man. Waited for the explosion.

It didn’t come.

Instead, the bony shoulders sank lower. “Yeah, apparently I’d deserve it.”The boy didn’t answer, but his wide, reddened eyes appeared over the remaining tower of books.

“Ya mind if I come sit?” Stephen held up the little blue bowl. “Brought pudding.”Wide eyes narrowed for a moment, and then the little blonde head nodded.

A few long, slow strides across dusty floorboards and the man was folding his limbs to sit on the other side of the wall of books. He set the bowl atop one of the piles and little hands snapped it up quickly.

Stephen folded his hands in his lap, kept his eyes on them as the boy ate. Waited.

And waited.

“So, uh, guess I’m gonna hafta go first, huh?”

The spoon clinked against the bowl.

“Right. Uh.” He rubbed his palms against the sides of his pants. “So I’ve been told - in no uncertain terms - that the punishment didn’t fit the crime today.”

Still nothing. 

“Your Uncle Franklin. He… he let me have it. So did Sammy. An’ Ms. Danvers.”

On the other side of the books, the boy didn’t make a sound. 

“And I probably did take things too far-”

“You were _scary_.” 

The first words of the boy were met with a wince. The child’s voice was small, but it took up the attic and filled it. His voice was rough and tight, and wobbled fresh. 

“Kid-”

“You were _scary_ ,” the boy said. “And you were _mean_ .” The little bowl made a noise, like it was roughly dropped to the side. “And I _hate_ you.”

That got a bigger reaction. 

The man twisted around, looking at the stack of books. “Aw Cas’...”

“Go ‘way.”

“Casper. Listen-”

“ _No_ .” The little memory of Casper made a hitched noise, hiccuping through a sob. “I hate you. An’ I don’t want you _here_.” 

Stephen twisted back, leaning against the stack of books. 

Casper could see his face. Defeated. It was the only word he could come up with when he looked at the man. 

He looked defeated. 

Amelia took Casper’s hand, walking him further into the attic away from the stairs. They walked until they stood close enough to finally see the boy on the other side, facing the window. He was curled up with his back against the spines of the books. There was one beside him filled with pictures of birds opened beside him. In the light of the moon reflecting off the snow, his blonde hair looked as white as Casper. His face was streaked with dried tears, and his eyes were stained red. 

On the other side of the wall of books, Stephen had only gone more rigid. Long fingers curled in dark hair, his eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck.” Long legs drew up tight. _“Fuck._ ”

The ghost frowned and turned away, pulling against Amelia’s hand. “Is that it? Is it over-?”

Amelia shushed him.

He went to say something else, until a burst of movement startled him, and he fell silent again. 

Stephen lifted his head, scrambled to his knees, twisting to lean back over the little wall the boy had built. “I don’t hate _you_.”

The child didn’t move. 

The ghost in the corner caught his breath.

“I don’t hate you,” the man said again, more forcefully. “Do you hear me, Cas? I _don’t_.”

Casper didn’t answer. 

“Not when I mess up. Not when I yell. Not when I’m bein’ an _ass_ , which is most’a the time.” He tried a weak laugh at the last part, but the joke fell flat. He swallowed. “I couldn’t. Not never. You can hate me as much as you want. But I couldn’t hate _you_.”

The boy didn’t answer. Didn’t move. And the silence was everywhere. He turned back around, sliding down to sit, the books at his back. 

“What happened today- it was bad. And I don’t blame ya’, kid. I don’t. Can’t imagine what that all felt like. Or… maybe I can.” He swiped at his nose, twisting his fingers together. “I just…” He leaned his head back, dragging in a deep breath and letting it out. “I just don’t know what I’m doin’.”

His words lingered in the attic. A truth from an exhausted, scared man. And despite it all, the ghost watching couldn’t help but feel it, too.

“I don’t got a single clue,” he said again; to the silence and the attic and the ghosts that listened. “We all got the call a few months ago that your Pa’ was gonna be away for awhile an’ there wasn’t no one to watch you. Franklin and Sammy were gonna go, and I figured I could lend a hand workin’ in the house. Didn’t think it’d be hard. Just gotta make sure you don’t crawl into the oven or chop off a finger or jump off the roof or nothin’. 

It was another joke, and it fell just as flat as the first. He rubbed his face. 

“But it is hard. An’ I don’t wanna do nothin’ wrong, but I think that’s all I’ve been doin’. Because I don’t got a single clue.” 

Casper watched himself staring through the window. Watched the man linger in the silence. 

Eventually Stephen nodded - more to himself than anyone else. He stood slowly, unwinding his long limbs with a grunt, smoothing out the aches in his knees with shaking hands. “Listen. I’ll… uh. I’ll leave you alone. And I won’t tell your uncles where you are.”

He touched the top of the stack of books, looking over. “See ya’ in the mornin’, Cas.” 

“I don’t hate you.” 

Stephen paused. His long legs had taken him past a collection of chests and coats, and he turned around to watch the stack of books again. The little boy was still sitting, staring out the window, but the fear and anger were fading. Casper could see it from where he floated. 

Something in him twisted up tighter. 

“I’m sorry.” The little boy sniffled. “I don’t hate you, sir.” 

The man was striding back again. He leaned over the stack of books to look at the boy, who finally tilted his head back and up to look at him in return. 

“Mind if I sit there?” 

The memory of Casper shook his head. 

Stephen stepped over the books, sitting down beside his nephew. The space was cramped, and even with his legs folded, his shoes still hit the wall. The two of them looked out the window together, an inch between them. 

“I think you’re gonna hafta help me out, kid,” the man said quietly. “‘Cause I’m in the doghouse with everybody else.”

The little boy turned, watching his uncle, who kept his eyes on the window.

“I don’t like what happened today - at _all_.” Long fingers twisted together again. “But I don’t know how to make it better neither.”

“But you want to?”

“I do.”

“Oh.” For a moment the boy sat, letting the idea settle around his shoulders. Then he pressed his lips together and nodded. “Okay.” 

Stephen turned, eyebrows high. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“... what do I do, then?”

“You gotta say you’re sorry.” Casper scrambled to his knees, balancing himself with his hands against his Uncle’s leg. “But you gotta say _why_. That’s what Ms. Danvers says. You can’t just say sorry. You gotta say why you’re sorry.”

“Right.”

“And then I gotta say sorry, too. And I gotta say why.”

“Okay. And then what?”

Casper screwed up his face, thinking. “I… don’t know. Ms. Danvers usually just gives me a toffee and tells me to play, but you’re not her, so you gotta do somethin’ else.”

“Yeah, I don’t got an apron full’a sweets…” He cracked a nervous smile, then took a deep breath. “Okay… I-” He paused, rolled his jaw. “Can’t remember the last time I apologized for somethin’, hang on.” He pushed himself up so he was sitting straighter, facing the boy. He bit his bottom lip. “You sure I gotta go first?”

“Yes,” Casper said, little face solemn. “The one who did the worse thing always goes first.”

“Well, can’t argue there… okay.” He rallied again, clearing his throat. “I’m… _sorry_ I yelled.” The boy’s expression remained serious. “And was scary.” No change. “And mean.” Nothing. “And made you cry,” he swallowed on that last one. “I was a real bastard today and you didn’t deserve it. So I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, that was pretty good,” the boy said with a nod. “Okay. I’m sorry I left my soldier on the floor and you got hurt.”

Stephen nodded, jaw set. 

The silence returned to the room, dragged for what felt to everyone in the room like an unbearable amount of time. And then-

“I have an idea for what we do next.”

“Oh thank god.”

“We can promise to try and do better next time,” the boy said. “So I can promise to try and remember to not leave stuff on the floor. And you can promise to try and be less of a bastard.”

Off to the side, Amelia snorted in laughter.

Stephen fought a smile. “ _Language_.”

“But you said-”

“S’a grown-up word, short stuff. But all right, yeah. I promise to try and be less of one. All right? Even when you do somethin’ that makes me want to sell you to the circus.”

At long, long last, the child smiled again. “Yeah.” He closed the space between them, wrapping little arms around his uncle’s middle. “Thank you, sir.”

The smile slipped from Stephen’s face, replaced with something more akin to panic as he stared down at his nephew. He swallowed again, then gingerly brought a hand to the top of the blonde head, patting gently. “Listen, Cas, um,” he cleared his throat. “You, uh, you don’t- I mean, um. Just ‘Uncle Stephen’s fine.”

“Okay.” The boy squeezed tighter. “Uncle Stephen.”

The man sucked in a breath as a different sort of cautious smile tugged his lips. He let one hand settle on the child’s back. “Right, well, anyway, we, uh, we should probably go tell your uncles you’re okay.”

The boy let out the biggest yawn. “Uh-huh.”

But then he didn’t move to rise.

Didn’t let go.

So Stephen let one hand rest awkwardly on the little back and waited.

And waited.

“Okay, kid, my legs are fallin’ asleep.”

No response.

“Cas?”

Silence, and then, the quietest, tiniest snore.

Stephen sighed. He slipped his hands under the boy’s arms and with a myriad of grunts and groans and creaks and pops managed to get to his feet. “Jesus Christ, kid,” he whispered. “Franklin’s out of his mind, sayin’ you’re too skinny.”

The boy’s head lolled onto the bony shoulder and stayed there.

Amelia rose to follow as they left the attic, Casper close behind, watching as the memory of himself - the _fake_ memory, he had to remind himself - slept peacefully in his uncle’s arms.

As they got down to the second story hall, Stephen stopped and the ghost, lost in thought, floated right through him, brought back to the moment by the voices of his other uncles.

“ _There_ you are-”

“Been lookin’ _everywhere_ for-”

Stephen hissed at them, twisting his torso to move the boy’s head further way. “Can it! He’s sleepin’!”

The other two paused, took a moment to take in the scene, glanced at each other, and then turned back to the eldest, curiosity on their faces.

Stephen’s ears flushed pink. “What?”

“Where’d you find him?” Franklin asked, voice low.

“Attic.”

“An’ what’d you do? Drag ‘im out and dose ‘im with chloroform?” Samuel raised an accusatory eyebrow.

“What? _No!_ Jesus…” Panic back on his face, he held the boy a little tighter. “We talked. Said I was sorry an’ then he, I dunno, he just konked out. It’s late. That’s all.”

The pair blinked.

“You said-”

“-you were _sorry-_ ”

“-to the _kid?_ ”

The color in Stephen’s ears deepened. “S’what bulbhead said I should do.”

Samuel’s mouth hung open. Franklin’s posture shifted, and he slipped his hands into his pockets. “Huh.”

“You got somethin’ to say?” Stephen hissed.

“You asked the kid what you should do?” the big man rumbled softly. 

“Well none’a _you_ assholes were gonna tell me-”

“And then _did_ what he told you?”

“If you’ve got a point, Franklin, make it please.” Stephen shifted the child in his arms. “Kid’s gettin’ heavy.”

His youngest moved forward, keeping his voice low. “M’sorry I said… You aren’t- I mean- It was just seein’ you like that with the kid, before-”

“S’fine. You had a point. Hurt to hear, but you had one.” He swallowed. “Ya’ know I wouldn’t-” 

“I know. _We_ know.” Franklin’s smile was back; cautious, but there, and his eldest brother looked grateful to see it. 

Stephen hefted the child in his arms a little higher. The kid jostled and pressed his face harder against his shoulder. “Gonna take this one to bed.”

“You want help?”

“I got it.”

Franklin nodded. Samuel rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, well. We’ll be havin’ a smoke in the parlor after. If you wanna.”

“Yeah,” Stephen said, hefting the child up again. “Yeah. Sounds good.” 

The brothers parted ways for only a short while. The house breathed a sigh and settled once more around the memories and the ghosts that watched them. 

Amelia ran a hand along the gilded frame of a portrait on the wall, humming to herself. “Funny how one night can shift the trajectory of so many lives.”

Casper, still floating where the memories - the _fake_ memories - of his uncles had been, turned to look at her. “What do you mean?”

His guide smiled at him. “Would you like to see?”

Warily, he nodded.

* * *

Kat and the two ghosts and Harvey looked over the pictures, discussing under their breath. The teenage girl got up every so often, moving between photos and items, digging through what she could find. Fatso nodded. Stinkie agreed quickly. Harvey watched it all with careful, clinical eyes. 

And off to the side, Stretch floated. 

They’d banned him from the space, which was fine, he told himself. Absolutely fine. 

All of this was worthless anyway. 

_He’ll be back_ , he thought. _He has a tantrum and the whole fuckin’ house bends over backwards. But he’ll be back_. _And if he ain't then it's fine anyhow. Who needs'm. Ungrateful runt._

But the rising of something sharp and tight was beginning to spread like a fine mist through him. A twisting, horrible anxiety just behind his eyes. 

And the feeling of a heavy _Something_ just below his throat. 

He’d been doing his best to ignore that Something. 

Even when it pounded at his head, hissing and thrashing like a feral cat. Going silent for a few minutes at a time before acting up all over again. 

He’d dropped his guard for all of one minute, and it had found a way to make him say… things. 

And he wasn’t going to let that happen again. 

Kat held up one of the pictures, squinting at it. He could hear her from across the room, dragging in deep breaths, trying to push away the anxiety and the mist and the Something. 

_Go away_ , he snarled. _Go away, go away, go away_. 

The Something did not go. 

In fact, the moment Kat brought up J.T., the Something decided that it was going to push even harder. 

_Stop it_ , Stretch hissed.

Fatso brought up the absent brother again. _Bad_ , Stretch could hear him say. _Real, real bad_. 

The Something began to pound at his head again. Stretch flinched. 

Bulbhead would be back. He’d be back, and this was fine, and if he could just hang on for a few more hours, then this _thing_ would go away, and he could go back to himself. 

Just a few more hours.

And then; 

“Did it work?” Kat was saying, casting him a wary glance. 

_Pound pound pound_ went the Something. 

“I mean… did you manage to keep them apart? Keep him from doing anything?”

 _POUND POUND POUND_ the Thing knocked, louder and louder. 

Stretch gagged, gasped, held his head. 

_POUND POUND POUND_ went the Something. 

_Stop it, stop it, stop it!_

And then his brother spoke. Deep voice drifting across the library floor, over books, over boxes, over desks, over pictures, over vultures just behind small boys watching from a distance - _No, kid. We didn’t. And the kid… he paid for that_ \- and handed the Something a key. 

Something deep inside Stretch snapped, and just like that… 

…. the pounding stopped. 

For a moment, it _stopped_. 

Stretch floated there, panting. The pain faded. The mist evaporated. The curl of anxiety had vanished into a numb, dark hole. 

And out of that empty space, a feeling began to emerge. Ever so slightly, ever so subtly, like water dripping through the cracks. A horrible, aching. 

A familiar aching. 

And from behind him 

(around him)

(below him)

( _inside him_ )

 _“Been knocking on this door a long time, Stretch old boy,”_ the Something hissed. _“I think it’s about time you and I had a talk.”_

  
  
  


And without a second thought

.

.

.  
  
Stretch flew. 


	9. The Something and the Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casper sees a sled break, the Vulture watches from a distance, they catch a glimpse of the First Ghost of Whipstaff, and a Something and a Feeling want very much to be heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made this chapter so long (around 16k) that we had to break it into two as stealthily as we could. 
> 
> Please enjoy the Uncles in their last months at Whipstaff Part 1.

Stretch flew through the halls of the manor too quickly to even see where he was going, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t care where he went so long as it was _away._ Away from prying eyes. Away from boxes. Away from photographs. Away.

But no matter how fast or how far he flew, he wasn’t going to get away.

_“Where exactly do ya think yer gonna go?”_

“Shut _up_ ,” he hissed.

_“You know who I am, right?”_

“No.”

_“Liar.”_

Stretch took another sharp turn fast, sending a suit of armor to the ground with a thunderous _clang_. 

_“Can’t knock me loose, pal. Why don’cha do us both a favor and quit tryin’?”_

With a snarl, the ghost ground to a halt, clutching his head, panting.

This was a trick. 

That bitch in the red dress was doing it.

 _Had_ to be her - she’d been messing with his head since she’d arrived. 

This wasn’t real.

Not real.

Not real.

Not real.

_“Ya know the kid’s got a similar mantra over on the other side.”_

Stretch whipped around, frantic, wild eyes searching in vain.

 _“Thinks that everything she’s showin’ ‘im is fake. And I don’t blame ‘im. After a hundred years’a_ **_you_ ** _? Christ, I’m embarrassed we share the same head.”_

The ghost thrashed, tearing a tapestry from the wall.

_“Would you calm the fuck down? We don’t exactly have unlimited time here, or have you forgotten?”_

At that, Stretch paused, gaping out into the grey. “...what?”

 _“I_ **_said_ ** _we don’t got a lot a time. You want the kid back, don’tcha?”_

“I-”

 _“An’ he’s not gonna_ **_be_ ** _back if you don’t quit all this bullshit an’ listen.”_

The ghost could only hover where he was, head pounding, breathing heavy.

_“Hey, look where ya brought us. Good a place ta start as any.”_

Stretch blinked, eyes focussing at last on the door to the playroom. And, as if his body was moving on its own without his permission, he phased through the wall.

* * *

The grandfather clock was chiming six and the sky outside was already dark. “November,” Amelia said. “About a month past that night in the attic.”

“Yeah, and what do you wanna bet things have gone right back to the way they were before?” Casper replied. The spirits watched as Stephen marched with purpose towards the playroom. Casper swallowed thickly. “See?”

“See what?” Amelia asked, moving to follow after the memory.

“That’s _not_ a good walk,” he explained, trailing behind. “That’s an I’m-going-to-be-in-trouble walk.”

“You think so?”

“I _know_ so.” He wrung his hands, stared up at the back of the man in front of them. “Do we have to see this?”

“We made a deal.”

He frowned and stopped moving.

“Casper?”

He shook his head. “No, no, _no!_ I won’t. Not again. Why are you _doing_ this to me?”

Amelia turned back, crouched down so they were eye-to-eye. “Casper...I think you should see this.”

His eyes burned. “Why?”

“Remember what we talked about? That he was going to keep trying?”

“You call _that_ trying?” He pointed down the hall.

“Let’s see.” She stood again.

He followed, albeit slowly. 

At the end of the hall, Stephen pushed the playroom door open. “Dinner’s almost ready, kid.”

The boy in the center of the room scrambled to his feet. “I know, I heard the five minute warning.”

“And?”

“And I can’t tell time.” The four-year-old shrugged. “But I was cleaning up!”

“Oh _were_ you?”

The little boy nodded. 

“We’ll see about that..” The man stepped into the room, hands behind his back, and began a slow, careful circle around the perimeter. The boy stood in the middle, like a soldier to attention. 

“Oh, man…” Casper said again, half-hidden behind Amelia’s skirts.

“What?”

“Look at this place!” He gestured at the room. Toys had been haphazardly shoved into cubbies. Crates were overflowing. The books on the bookshelves were jammed in at all angles. There was a bump in the middle of the carpet that was _clearly_ not supposed to be there. “He did a _terrible_ job!” He shook his head. “Or… or _I_ did?”

“You were _four_.”

“That’s no excuse! Oh, man, he’s gonna _kill_ me…”

Amelia brought a hand to his shoulder, squeezing. “Let’s just see.”

Stephen drew a long finger across a shelf, scrutinized it. “You tall enough to dust up here?” he asked.

The little boy snorted, shook his head.

“All right, guess I’ll let that slide.” He moved to continue his circle-

-and bumped his head on a model airplane hanging from the ceiling.

The ghost Casper cringed.

The memory of Casper snickered behind his hands.

Stephen frowned at the plane. “Who hung that?”

“Ms. Danvers.”

“Oh. That answers _that_ .” To the ghost’s surprise, the man _smiled._ Not a leer. Not a smirk. A _smile_. Then he ducked under the plane and moved on.

He finished the circle and moved towards the center to the room. Paused with one foot raised over the bump in the carpet. “Uh-oh.”

“What?” the boy asked, looking nervous for the first time since this uncle had entered.

Stephen gestured at the carpet. “Is somethin’ gonna get broken if I put my foot down right now?”

“Oh. Maybe.” 

“Should we find out?”

“No please,” the boy said quickly.

“Will you come back up here and fix it after dinner?”

“Mmhmm!”

“Fair enough.” The man moved to the door. “Guess I won’t hafta sell ya to the circus this time.”

Skipping to keep up with his uncle’s loping strides, the child followed. “An’ I didn’t learn to juggle yet anyway.”

“Better get on top’a that, short stuff.” 

The pair faded away as they passed through the observing spirits.

“Huh,” Amelia said. “Was it as bad as you imagined?”

Casper could only shake his head, mouth still gaping.

* * *

“It’s the kid’s stupid train room.” Stretch rolled his eyes as he floated in a slow circle around the space.

_“Didn’t think it’d still be set up like this.”_

“His little girlfriend did it. _She’s_ the reason we’re in this mess to begin with.”

_“Sure she is.”_

Stretch scowled. Why was he even playing along? Talking out loud to nothing like a headcase? He just had to push harder, make this- this _whatever-it-was_ go away.

_“Yeah, that ain’t gonna happen.”_

His body moved on its own again, swivelling towards one of the collections of toys on a shelf.

Tiny tin soldiers with chipping paint stood at attention in a row.

 _“Those little fuckers hurt like hell,”_ the voice said. _“Didn’t they?”_

A shooting pain from out of nowhere made him flinch, gasping, curling his tail in. “Fuck!”

_“See?”_

“The hell did you _do?_ ”

 _“And we were so_ **_mad_ ** _about it…”_

There was another voice then, fainter, like an echo bouncing between his ears. _I’m sorry!_ it sobbed. _I’m sorry!_

And something altogether new and awful pressed against his chest, heavy and clutching. He curled further in, shut his eyes.

Which was worse.

Because there was a face behind his eyelids.

Blurry, like there was frosted glass between them.

Shadowed, lit in blue.

 _Go away!_ _I hate you!_

The heavy feeling in his chest tightened.

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t _breathe._

_I’m sorry!_

_Go away! I hate you!_

_I’m sorry!_

_Go away! I hate you!_

_I’m sorry!_

_Go away! I hate-_

“Would everybody just _shut_ **_up?!”_** He unfurled, glaring around the - empty - room.

He still couldn’t breathe.

So he shot up through the ceiling and into the rain.

* * *

The boy was screaming. 

It was the first thing Casper heard when the memory shifted again; the boy screaming. _Himself_ screaming. 

“Amelia…” He grabbed her elbow. 

She just laughed, shaking her head. “It’s alright.”

“ _But_ -”

“Trust me,” she said, easing his fist off her dress. “It’s fine. You don’t even think this is real, right?”

He swallowed, wincing when the boy screamed again. 

The sounds were coming from another direction in the hallway. “That’s Kat’s room!” 

“Well… yours, really. At this point, at least.” She took his hand, walking pulling him to the side of the hallway, beside a window. His brow pinched, looking up at her, and caught a glimpse out the window. 

The red and the gold trees of before had gone. The branches were bare, and the land was flattened and frozen with a thin layer of glittering frost.

“It’s the beginning of December,” she said. “The house was getting colder, the days were shorter, and you were going a little stir crazy when going outside on your own wasn’t a constant option.” She grinned, jerking her head towards the noises. “Which meant that you got to another someone stir crazy with you.” 

Another shriek, this time accompanied by the sounds of little feet moving quickly down the hall, padding against the persian rugs. 

Another set of footsteps were striding quickly behind. “Cas- _per_!”

He went to grab her arm. “He’s _angry_ again!”

She laughed. “He’s not _angry_. He’s in over his head and you were four and bored.”

The memory of himself took that moment to burst around a corner, running as fast as his feet could take him, shrieking and grinning, speeding right past the two ghosts. He was wearing what looked like a white, wool leotard. 

Casper jerked back. “What is _that_?”

Amelia laughed harder. “Your union suit. Old underwear was such a chore. But look how cute you were!”

“S’not cute!”

“It is, though.” 

Stephen wasn’t far behind, trying to keep pace. He stopped by two ghosts in the hall without seeing them, bending over to catch his breath. “Casper!” he called down the hall. “Get yer skinny little ass over here!”

All he got was a very loud “NO!” and more running in reply. 

He grunted, growled something about _damn knees can’t take much more’a this_ before straightening up and striding down the hall. 

Casper was climbing up the railing to the left staircase above the foyer when they caught up. 

“Ey! Don’t you dare— _Oh Jesus Christ_.”

The boy looked the man in the eye before daring. 

Stephen was left at the top of the landing (taking a few very deep breaths) as the little body of Casper slid down the railing to the floor, jumping off and running into the parlor. 

“This can’t be real,” Casper said, as Amelia walked behind Stephen. She was still grinning wildly, eyes sparkling. “I could never get away with acting like…”

“Like a child?”

“ _Exactly_.”

“Except that you were a child. And he was learning that.”

“Doesn’t make it real.”

“No,” she said, reaching the bottom and gesturing towards the parlor door. “But it makes it fun to watch.” 

He peeked into the parlor to see Franklin and Sammy sitting around. From the doorway, Casper could see blonde hair poking up from behind the settee where Franklin sat. 

Stephen stumbled in, catching his breath. 

Sammy looked up from his book. “Where’s the fire?”

“Casper…” He caught his breath, pushing back his mussed hair, flattening the loose strands. “Bulbhead ran in here, when _he should be gettin’ dressed_.” He emphasized the last part with a waggle of the dress shirt in his hand. 

“Casper?” Sammy looked towards Franklin, who glanced up from his script. “You seen Casper?”

“Gosh… Not sure.”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “The hell you mean. He’s right-”

“You know!” Franklin cut him off quickly, tapping his chin with all the drama of an off-stage thespian. “He ran outta here _so_ fast. Bet he reached Paris by now!” 

From behind the chair there was a snort. 

“Maybe even Tokyo!” Samuel added.

“Such a shame you missed him.” Franklin shook his head. Another giggle, frantically stifled, floated up from behind him, but he merely sighed, looking back down at his script. “Hope he sends a postcard now and then.”

Samuel slipped a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at nonexistent tears. “I miss ‘im already.”

Stephen looked like he was having an aneurysm. “The two’a you sick in the head? He’s right-”

“Oh, Stephen,” Franklin said, putting a hand to his chest. “You must miss ‘im most of all - hallucinatin’ that he’s still here.”

Another fit of giggles from behind the settee.

“Okay. What. The. _Hell._ Are you two doin’?”

Sammy turned in his chair towards Franklin. “Think the gas-pipes are cuttin’ off circulation to his brain.”

“Tragic.” Franklin nodded sadly.

Stephen’s right eye twitched.

The boy chose that moment to pop up from his hiding place, shouting, “Here I am!”

Franklin took an exaggerated pratfall off the settee.

Samuel put a hand to his mouth.

All three dissolved into laughter.

“I was here the whole time!” Casper declared, climbing over the back of the settee.

From his spot on the floor, Franklin feigned shock. “No!”

“I _was!_ ”

“We thought you were halfway to Timbuktu!” Samuel said.

“Nope!”

“Boy, you really had us fooled, short stuff.”

From his spot on the carpet, Stephen dragged his free hand down his face. “Yeah, yeah, he’s the next Anton Zamloch. Now would one’a you boneheads please tell him to come get dressed?”

His brothers looked at each other and then at the boy, who was shaking his head wildly.

“Oh, what’s the harm?” Franklin said.

“Let the kid run wild for a little while,” Samuel added.

From his seat, Casper gave a celebratory _whoop!_

All Stephen could do was exhale heavily through his nose, vanquished. “Fine. But he can’t go outside like that!”

Franklin climbed back up to his seat, scooping the boy into his lap in one smooth motion. “That sound like a good deal, short stuff?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“There ya go. Wanna read with me?” He got an enthusiastic nod in response, and the two of them settled in happily together.

Stephen slunk from the room, muttering to himself about being outnumbered and the unfairness of it all when someone clearing their throat made him pause, look up.

Ms. Danvers was standing at the foot of the stairs, a basket of clothes held against her hip. “I can take that, Mr. McFadden. Going to be ironing anyhow.”

He blinked at her.

She rolled her eyes and pointed. “The shirt? That you couldn’t wrestle the boy into?”

He glanced down, seemingly having forgotten he was still holding it. “Oh. Right. You don’t have to-”

“If not now, then I’ll be doing it tomorrow, and I’d rather do it _now,_ thank you.”

He cleared his throat, handing it over mutely. She snatch it, stuffing it into the basket. “I- uh. I never realized how wriggly they are.”

“Children or your brothers?” she asked, voice clipped.

“Some days I can’t tell.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But this new routine - gettin’ the kid dressed and up… Never thought watchin’ a kid would mean running everywhere. It’s doin’ hell on my back. And shoulders. And knees. And everythin’ in general.” He laughed awkwardly. She watched him with cool eyes. “Anyway,” he said, clearing his throat again. “I’ll… get you more of the kids stuff, if you’re doin’ a load.” He turned to move up the stairs.

“Willow root.”

“Sorry?” One foot up on a step, he turned around. 

“Willow root,” she said again, eyes still cold. “I have willow root tea. It doesn’t taste all that wonderful, and I know you don’t especially favor tea, but it helps with joint pain. If you come down to the kitchen I’ll brew you a cup.” 

His eyes brightened and his shoulders rose, as if a heavy yolk had been lifted. “Yeah?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Actually, why don’t I go put the kettle on now?”

“Really?”

She hoisted the laundry basket forward, into his unexpecting arms and he scrambled to keep it from spilling all over the floor. “You go get the rest of Casper’s things and take that down to the laundry room. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done.”

“Walked right into that one, didn’t I?” 

Her eyes held a hint of warmth as she said, “Maybe I still know you after all.”

He shifted the basket in his hands, held her gaze. “Does this mean I get to call ya Nell again?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” her tone was teasing as she turned to walk away. “You might have to try your hand at ironing before I allow that.”

“You really sure you wanna risk me burning the place down?” he called after her.

“You’re a big boy, Stephen. Now run along and be useful for a change.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was a noticeable spring in his step as he climbed the stairs.

Leaning on the railing, gazing up after the fading memory, Amelia smiled. “Things are shifting. Even Ms. Danvers notices.”

Casper sighed. “If it’s even _real_.”

“Of course,” she nodded. "What about this makes _this particular moment_ less real, though? I'm curious." 

"The boy... after everything... he's _happy_."

She raised a brow. "Is that it?"

"He's _too_ happy. You're avoiding all the bad stuff or something."

"Am I?"

"Yes," Casper insisted, brow pinched down.

Amelia snorted, brushing hair off her shoulder. “It isn’t as if you were happy _all the time_ , Casper.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

He crossed his arms. “ _If_ this is real, then when my Uncle Stre- _Stephen_ yelled or screamed-”

She waved the thought away with an errant hand. “We can get back to the yelling and the screaming later. There are more ways that a child can be unhappy. It’s not just when an adult forgets how to keep a level head on their shoulders.” Amelia snapped her fingers, drawing them to a new memory. They were just outside the kitchen. The bright walls of the house turned dark, night overtaking it. “You relied on your Uncles for so much. And it was a group effort taking care of you. And during the day, they each had their own roles. But at night, things changed.”

He looked up at her, squinting. “Why?” 

"Because at night, you were... different." She walked forward and into the kitchen. 

The light in the kitchen offered at least some solace from the dark. In the room, he could see the pitch just outside. Nell was at the stove, a kettle just beginning to boil. Down the hall, outside the room, he could just hear the sounds of the three men in the billiards room, arguing muffled by the space between them. 

It took him a moment before he even noticed the boy. 

He was sitting at the kitchen table, his head against the table top. His arms were folded around him, and the crossed fists shook. 

He looked smaller than he had in a long while. 

Casper frowned. There was a clock on the wall, and he glanced at it. 

It was just past midnight. 

“Why is he- am _I_ \- awake?”

“It wasn’t as frequent when they arrived. But it still happened.”

“What’s _it_?”

She stayed quiet, stepping away as the Uncles filed in from the billiards room. The smell of tobacco and brandy followed them through, and they paused at the entrance of the kitchen at the sight of the housekeeper in her sleeping dress and shawl, kettle already steaming on the stove, and the little boy with his head down against the table. 

“What the hell happened to him?” Stephen was at the housekeeper’s side, his voice a murmur. 

“It’s the dreams,” she said back, addressing the three men, bustling through them to grab a satchel of tea from the cupboard. “He gets them from time to time. Nasty things.”

Franklin glanced over at the boy, concerned. “About what?” 

“He won’t tell me.” She shook her head. “He never does. I just find him in the hallways some nights. Sometimes he’s already down here, awake. He never slept well before you were here, so it’s not as often. It’s just that sometimes…” She let out a heavy breath, looking over at the exhausted child at the table. “This is what I meant. The stress… It was one of the first signs before he stopped eating and sleeping. It’s a cycle. I had hopes, but…” 

The youngest of the three frowned. “Well. I got him eating. Maybe I can take a crack at this, too.”

“I don’t know if it’s that simple-”

But the man was already bustling over to sit on the chair next to the boy, who lifted his head tiredly when a hand pressed against his back. 

“Don’t fight’m,” Samuel said. “He’s always gonna do what he wants to do when it comes to that one.”

“Usually manages to get somethin’ done, too,” grumbled Stephen. “Kid won’t have any bad dreams once he’s done with’m.” There was a twist of salt about the way the man said it. Casper could hear it. A bitter, cutting edge that sat in the corners of the room. 

Ms. Danvers shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve tried everything, but it’s usually such a temporary fix. I told him - if he just _tells_ me what the dreams are about… I mean I can imagine… his Father was never there, and he barely knew his mother before she passed. All of that on his little shoulders. It can’t be easy.”

Stephen looked ready to comment again, but was cut off by a throat clearing across the room. 

Franklin had Casper in his arms, holding him securely. The tired child had his head against his Uncle’s shoulder, looking miserable. “We’ll be upstairs, if anyone needs us.”

“Of course.” Ms. Danvers smoothed out her already smoothed skirts. “Casper, dear. If you need anything, you know where to find us.”

The boy nodded mutely, and was gone when his Uncle walked from the room, murmuring to the child in his arms. 

“See?” Stephen muttered. “Quick fix.”

Ms. Danvers watched the boy go, mouth twisted. 

Casper followed the pair without asking Amelia, but she didn’t stop him. 

* * *

His Uncle was sitting on the edge of Casper’s bed when the ghost of his nephew arrived, and watched him flip through a few scripts on his lap. “What’s the entertainment tonight, Cas? I got _Pirates of Penzance, An Ideal Husband_ \- that’s the newest one I’m putting on, but it doesn’t got no music.”

The child in the bed, beneath the covers, still looked rattled and tired, but he was relaxing enough to nod along and point to one of the scripts wordlessly. 

Casper floated in the doorway and watched his Uncle put the rest of the scripts away, taking out one and clearing his throat. “I’ll do my best with the voices. They cast me as the titular _man_ , but I always thought I’d make a good leading lady.” 

In the bed, Casper attempted a smile, rubbing his eyes. 

“Act one, scene one. The room is brilliantly lighted and full of guests. At the top of the staircase stands LADY CHILTERN, a woman of grave Greek beauty, about twenty­ seven years of age-” 

“It wouldn’t work.”

Casper spun around. Amelia was standing behind him. In the manufactured moonlight, her dress cast a red shadow on the walls. 

“What wouldn’t?”

“This.” She nodded towards the moment. “He’d do it as often as he could before he left. But there was only so much this trick could do.”

Casper looked back at the scene, leaning his hand against the doorframe. “What is he - am _I_ \- dreaming about.”

She dragged in a deep breath. “ _That_ ,” she said, “is for another memory. This moment though? This is only about change. Or the lack of it, rather.” 

She turned around. In the hallway behind her, another memory appeared, the one inside the room drifting into smoke. A little boy walked the halls in his pajamas. He was quiet and took his time, padding through the house. 

“... what is he doing?” 

“I told you. There are more reasons to be upset. To be _sad_. You were used to being ignored, and looking for help didn’t seem worthwhile when it hadn't come before. And I think the loneliness was something you’d gotten used to, no matter who was there. You expected it. You barely knew your mother. Your father was working, and after his wife passed... well..."

"But he'd be _back_."

"It didn't change how you felt. And when he was gone, your Uncles came to keep you company, but how long would that last? I think you knew that you only had so long, even without anyone saying it. You knew.” She sighed, shaking her head. “The dreams weren’t all the time. Not as often now. But when it did happen, you were ready for it.”

The boy continued his steady travel through the dark halls. 

“You were used to being on your own. And so, on those nights when the dreams got bad, you walked.” She watched the boy, following. Casper joined her.

The house was dark and silent. Moonlight clutched and reached for him through the slotted windows. The house hissed and whispered and settled and glowed, and the boy walked through it towards the foyer landing, taking the stairs down into the dim, gasping darkness. 

“And so he was made; the very first ghost of Whipstaff,” Amelia said. 

Casper clenched his jaw. 

_Not real_ , he repeated. 

He repeated it as long as he could, watching the boy below finally fade away into the dark below. 

* * *

One of the perks of being a ghost was no longer feeling things like cold, driving November rain. 

One of the downsides was not having the luxury of letting cold, driving November rain distract you from the voice that had appeared uninvited in your head.

 _“The running thing again? Really? I mean, I always knew we were dumb, but I didn’t think we were_ **_this_ ** _dumb.”_

“Would you just-” Stretch bit his tongue. No. He wasn’t getting dragged into this.

_“Too late for that, pal.”_

The ghost gritted his teeth. “You ain’t real. That freaky fantasy world knocked a screw loose is all.”

_“Man, the place looks like shit. Ain’t nobody keepin’ up with nothin’?”_

“What?” The sudden change in conversation snatched his attention. “The fuck does that even-” 

_“Grounds so overgrown ya can’t barely see the hills. Kid loved those damn hills.”_

Stretch was suddenly cold.

He hadn’t been cold in a hundred years.

And yet.

The little echoey voice was back again. _You should try sledding!_ it piped, chipper in the dismal, frigid downpour, and his flinched. 

“Stop it.”

_“Stop what?”_

He was shivering and when he clutched at his arms there were goosebumps despite there being no skin. 

_You push, Uncle Stephen!_

“Stop it!”

_“Not doin’ anythin’. Not really. This is all you."_

There was a _crack!_ from somewhere and nowhere - wood and metal splitting apart - and Stretch felt something rise up in his throat. He grasped at the nearest spire, fighting the feeling of choking on nothing.

And again-

-even though he had no need for breath-

-he was suffocating.

“This isn’t happening,” he choked out, before dropping back down through the roof.

* * *

Casper was still smarting from the last memory. 

It had set off something in his head. Alarm bells, red flags, blaring lights; they roved about his head, and he was set on ignoring them as best as he could. 

_It doesn’t matter_ , he told himself. _It’s not real._

He was concentrating so hard on _not_ noticing the waving red flags, that he didn’t notice Amelia had stopped until she was grabbing his arm. 

“Oh look!” 

“What?”

The front door windows near where they were standing, and through them, he could see the flakes falling. 

“It’s the middle of December,” said Amelia, “and _that_ is the first snowfall.” 

He floated closer to the window, tilting his head, touching the glass. It felt cool under his fingers. 

The snow hadn’t built up much on the ground, yet. It was merely a thin layer, frosting the Earth. The plumes of falling snow made the trees look like spindly men gasping up towards the sky. 

He flinched backwards when a voice from upstairs shrieked, “IT’S SNOWING!”

“You always loved snow,” she said. “Now, then, always.”

Little footsteps were running down the steps, and another pair followed. 

“Slow down, bulbhead!” 

“IT’S SNOWING!”

“I see that!” Franklin was walking down the steps at pace, watching a still pajamaed Casper jump down the steps onto the lobby floor.

Before the ghost could say anything, another person came running through. 

Samuel, throwing on a scarf, was sprinting through the foyer.

“Uncle Sammy!”

“Not now, Cas!”

“Whoah!” Franklin reached the foyer floor. “There a murder or somethin' I need to know about?”

Samuel wrenched open the inner front door before barking, “ _I didn’t cover the saplings_!” He didn’t bother to close the first door before opening the second and running out onto the porch, slipping, catching himself, and finally sprinting onto the drive, scarf falling off onto the snow behind him. 

He didn’t close that door, either, and cold air swept through. 

The little boy laughed, and went to follow-

“ _Hold it!_ ”

-when a hand gripped the back of his pajama shirt. 

Casper turned around, bending almost backwards to stare up, up, up at his tallest Uncle, who’d managed to stride up silently in the excitement. 

“It’s snowing,” Casper explained, trying to pull against the hand holding him. 

“I got eyes, bulbhead. An’ I also see that you ain’t wearin’ _any_ of the shit you’re s’posed to.”

“But…” Casper replied numbly, pointing again. “It’s _snowing_.”

“He’ll be fine, Stephen,” Franklin began. “If we stay on the porch-”

“Yeah! I’ll stay on the porch!”

“I don’t got the energy to deal with the both of you today.” Stephen tugged the boy back, giving him a shove towards the stairs. “Up to your room. I’ll be there in a minute to help.”

“ _Fiiiiiine_.”

“Pull that attitude and see how quick I keep you inside!”

Casper stomped up the steps as loudly as he could. 

His Uncle rolled his eyes. “ _And you’d better have some clothes picked out when I get up there!_ ” 

“I _will_!” The child shouted back, stomping down the hall. 

“He had his hands full,” Amelia said, catching Casper’s attention from where it had been caught on the sulking boy. “You were _spirited_ , and he met his match with you. So every time you pushed, he pushed back harder.”

“Which is what made him mean,” Casper muttered. 

“It’s what made him _determined_ ,” Amelia corrected easily. She snapped her fingers, and the scene moved forward quickly until a little boy was running down the steps again, dressed this time, being followed quickly by Stephen holding a jacket and mittens. 

“Ey! You know the deal!” 

“But-”

“No goin’ outside until you got all this on, short stuff.”

“Mittens _first_.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember. Hands out.” 

“He knew his role,” she said. “He was the hard one. The one who had to enforce the rules and the punishments.”

“Because he wanted to make me miserable,” said Casper, pausing to add, “if it’s real. And that's all he knows _how_ to do. All he's willing to do.” 

“Perhaps,” said Amelia. She snapped her fingers again, and they were on the porch, watching Casper run on the front yard. Samuel was over on the side, cover the trees with a hemp fabric. Franklin was on the lawn, showing Casper how to form a snowball. 

Stephen was on the porch, a cigarette lit between his fingers, watching. 

“Then again,” said Amelia, “you don’t look too miserable.” 

He scoffed, ignoring her. “Look at him.”

“I’m looking.” 

“He’s just… standing there. He’s not even _playing_ with the kid!”

Amelia laughed. “He wasn’t really one for playing! You see how he is. God forbid something happened to his clothes!”

“So he just made some stupid rules and yelled and stood there like a _vulture_ and never played.”

“Not entirely.” She snapped her fingers again. “He did what he could, and even when he wasn’t sure, he tried. Because that’s what he’d always do. _Try_.” 

The snow outside got deeper. The three figures outside vanished, but their voices were thrown farther towards the hills off to the side of the house. Amelia smiled, walking off the porch. Her feet didn’t sink through the snow as she walked, drifting just above the ice, leaving no footprints behind. The edges of her dress darkened. “Should we go see what they’re doing?”

Casper huffed, his breath coming out in a puff of steam, and followed her over the land. 

“It’s January,” she explained while they walked towards the hills. “The snow had been falling for a while now. And you were so excited to bring your sled out.”

They finally reached the top of the hill and the voices became clearer.

“Uncle Franklin! Uncle Sammy! Look!” the boy brandished the sled, got a running start, and then launched himself down the hill, belly to the wood. At the foot, a pair of familiar figures were blasted with snow as he skidded to a stop at their feet.

“Not bad, short stuff,” Franklin brushed the powder from the sleeves of his overcoat. “But you know what would make it go even faster?”

“What!” The boy hopped up, righted the cap that had been knocked askew on his head.

His uncle patted his rotund middle. “A little extra weight. Should we give it a try?”

Casper grabbed Franklin’s hand, face rosy. “Yes! I told Ms. Danvers that you were _super strong_ , so maybe you can give us an extra large push first!”

“You know I will, short stuff! And maybe we can build a ramp.”

“ _No way_!”

Hand in hand they climbed the hill again.

From the top of the hill, Casper and Amelia watched. “My dad bought me that sled for Christmas, I think,” Casper said. His breaths puffed in the cold. “It was the first thing I found with Kat.” He swallowed, eyes misting. The figures were too far away, but he could see himself at the top of one of the hills, waving to someone just out of sight at the bottom. He breathed in deep. The cold burned his lungs. 

“He did,” she agreed. “But that’s not the same sled you found in the attic..”

He wanted to argue, but the closer the boy and his Uncle got, the more he could see that she was right. 

The one the boy was holding was older. A little more well worn. 

“I believe you saw this one in a picture.”

The flicker of something began behind his eyes, and he quickly grabbed onto it before it could leave “That’s right! He had this sled when I was little-”

“He did. It was his when he was a boy. Though you didn’t get to use it with him. The sled your _father_ would give you would come on your sixth birthday,” she explained. 

“And _they_ had nothing to do with it.”

“No,” she said. “They wouldn’t have anything to do with the next sled.” She paused, smiling. “ _If_ this is real.”

He ignored her, crossing his arms to watch.

From below, Samuel was still standing in the snow, watching the pair reach the top of the hill. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “You think yer going to fit on that thing?”

“Oh shut yer sauce-box,” Franklin huffed, settling himself down on the sled with a grunt. “C’mere, squirt.” He patted the space in front, and Little Casper plunked down without hesitation. “Hold on tight.”

Practically vibrating with excitement, the boy grabbed the rope handle. “Ready!”

His Uncle pushed off with both feet, then raised them up onto the sled as they picked up speed. Faster...faster...a bit too fast. Samuel had to dive out of the way as the pair came careening down at him. Franklin put a hand out to slow them, knocked them off balance. Man and boy spilled out into the snow, rolling and roaring with laughter.

“Uncle Sammy! Did you _see that_?”

“It’s all over me, kid.” Samuel brushed off his coat. 

Casper was barely listening. “Oh my gosh, Uncle Franklin that was _the fastest_ I’ve ever gone!” Casper leapt atop his uncle. “Let’s do that again!” 

Franklin grunted between chuckles. “Think it’s someone else’s turn,” he said, looking in no hurry to pick himself up off the ground.

Adjusting the scarf around his neck, Samuel dipped down to pick up the sled. “I’ll take a crack at it.” 

Instantly satisfied, the boy clambered off of Franklin and followed Saumel up the hill. Their ride down wasn’t as fast, but their landing was much smoother. “And _that_ , gentlemen,” Samuel said, getting to his feet, bowing low with his arms out, “is how it’s done.”

The ghosts watching squinted below, realizing something. He counted the people there. 

Franklin. 

Samuel. 

Casper. 

1, 2, 3…

“Wait,” he said. “Where’s-

“Ya know you two look like absolute ninnies, right?” the voice called out. Casper whipped around. From a spot on the top of the hill, the Vulture of Whipstaff was hunched against a tree. He was dressed in his customary suit, though he had apparently wrestled himself into a thin, black coat that didn’t look like it was doing much for his reddening nose and ears. 

“Least we’re not gonna catch hypothermia!” Samuel hollered back. “Would it kill ya to put on a winter coat? Or a _hat_? You look like you’re goin’ ta’ take one’a us into court!”

“Like hell if he’d sacrifice his _hair_ with a hat,” Franklin said, laugh booming into the snow. 

The boy had started back up the hill again, but he turned at their shouting. An idea bloomed across his face, and he grabbed the sled by the reigns to make a dash for the tree.

“Uncle Stephen-!”

“Whatever it is you’re about to say,” said the man, “the answer is no.” 

“You should try sledding!”

“I must be psychic.”

“He’s never going to say yes,” Casper said, beside Amelia. He watched the boy standing with his boots deep in the snow, chin raised, facing his eldest Uncle with a defiant stare. The sled sat beside him. 

“He never liked playing.” She crossed her arms, grinning. “He watched it all. From the top of the hill, from the background, from the porch. He was never far behind.”

“So he was a _vulture_ ,” Casper snipped. 

“He was new to all of this, and he was learning. He didn’t know _how_ to play.” 

Over by the sled, the boy was still trying. “You might like it!”

“I won’t.”

“But you _might_!”

“In this suit? Nuh uh.” 

“That’s not even your best suit!” 

“They’re all my best suits.” 

Casper crossed his arms. 

Stephen huffed. It burst into steam in the cold air. “Look, bulbhead. I’m just here to make sure these two idiots don’t lose ya in the snow. That’s it. Anything beyond that is stretchin’ my radius of obligation.”

“Don’t even try your luck with that one, Cas.” From down the hill, Franklin had his hands cupped around his mouth. “Gust of wind might blow him away. We’d lose him!”

“There’s _one_ reason to do it,” Samuel called. 

“You two startin’ something over there?” 

Casper wasn’t listening to his bickering Uncles, and instead had ducked down, gathering snow between his mittens. He balled it up tight.

“I bet you don’t even know how to sled!” Samuel shouted up the hill. 

“What’s there ta’ figure out!” Stephen yelled back. “Ya’ sit down, ya’ slide down, ya’ look like a fuckin’ moron doin’ it! Don’t need a degree to figure that out, Sammy!” 

Casper stood back up, packing the snow tighter. 

“You’ve been a wet blanket since before you was born!” 

“Least I don’t look like a hobo!”

Casper pulled his arm back. 

Stephen let out a little yelp of “ _Jesus!_ ” when a snowball smacked hard into the tree he was leaning on just over his head. An explosion of ice and slush fell all over, landing in his slicked hair, and he spluttered, hissing when some of it fell down the back of his coat. “What the _hell_ was-”

He wiped his eyes, flicking water off his fingers, finally noticing the little boy whose hands were strategically folded behind his back. 

He narrowed his eyes. “So,” he began, “you’re either cruisin’ for a week of chores or a smack upside the head."

Atop the hill, the ghost clutched Amelia’s arm. 

She laughed, peeling his fingers off. “It’s fine. Watch.”

Casper bit his lip to try and keep his smile at bay, reaching down again for more snow. 

“Two for one special if you even _try_.”

A properly-made, well-aimed snowball collided with his shoulder and the other brothers’ cackles rang out. 

“You see that, Cas!” Franklin raised his arms. His hands were coated. “That’s why I was a pitcher at Kent!”

Stephen spluttered, and furiously brushed off his coat. “This is _Italian_!” 

That made the laughter even louder. 

“Might as well do it, Mr. Big Shot!” Samuel said, clapping the snow from his gloves. “Suit’s already wet.”

Stephen grumbled a few curses under his breath, turning to look down his nose at the little helion on the ground, grinning back up at him. “ _One time_ ,” Stephen said. “You get _one_. And that’s it.”

“Okay!” 

“And the three’a you are gettin’ me a new coat.”

“Sure!” 

“And pull this again, I’ll send ya’-”

“To the zoo! I know, I _know_! Now c’mon!”

“Can you even sit in those gas-pipes?” Franklin called him, watching him awkwardly try to sit on the little wooden sled while Casper bounced in the front, reigns in his hands. .

“Don’t know? Can you talk without teeth?” 

Franklin flashed a rude gesture when Casper’s head was turned, and Samuel sputtered another cackle beside him. 

“Feet up,” Casper commanded. He patted the man's shoes, getting snow across the leather. Stephen winced. “Okay! So now you push!” 

“Can’t we just sit here-” 

“You _push_ , Uncle Stephen” said the boy again. “Or we won’t go anywhere and it won’t be any fun!”

Up on top of the hill, the ghost shook his head. “No way. No _way_ he’d actually-”

“And yet-” Amelia waved a hand at the scene. “-off they go.”

The sled flew down the hill, skidding past the other Uncles. And it would have wound up stopping just beyond if it hadn’t hit a rock. 

From the top of the hill, still watching, Casper could see it coming. It was barely visible, covered in ice and snow, but it was there. 

And they were heading right towards it. 

Casper reached out, eyes huge. “Amelia! Amelia, they’re going to-” 

He didn’t get to finish the word before the sounds of the _crash_ popped and snapped over the wintery estate. 

The sled made a horrible grinding noise, bucking forward. One of the blades beneath cracked and flew off in one direction. The reins, tangled beneath, snapped. 

The boy didn’t even have a chance to scream before he was being tossed off head first. 

“Don’t worry.” Amelia grabbed his shoulder. “He’s going to be fine.”

And he was. 

Swept up by long, gangly arms, the two of them fell off the sled, with his Uncle taking the brunt of the fall as the parts of the shattered sled rolled a few times over down the hill before finally coming to a stop upside down in the snow. 

Casper stared. 

Stared, and stared, and stared. 

“He-”

“He was so scared,” said Amelia. “The moment it hit, he was so afraid. He didn’t know what he’d do, but he acted before he could think.” She shook her head. “I’d hate to think what would have happened if he _hadn’t_.”

The other two Uncles were running down fast as they could. 

“Kid! You good!”

“Shit, Stephen-!”

“Oh you’re _kiddin’ me_!” The man in the snow sat up, bringing the child with him. He looked down at his now ripped pants leg which must have been caught beneath the blade, when they fell. 

Casper, still clinging to his suit jacket, blinked. He looked around, back at the Uncles standing just past them-

And he began to laugh. 

“Oh my gosh! Did you _see_ that! We were _flying_!”

The two Uncle’s on the sidelines relaxed. 

Stephen groaned, poking at the ripped suit again. “You’re _all dead_ , ya know that? Do you know- do you have any idea- _this fabric is imported_ -”

“It’s authentic ancient Italian!” Samuel snorted. The threat of a hurt child had passed, and he was smiling again. “Looks a little _ruined_.”

“Told ya’ you should’a bought playclothes,” Franklin chided loudly.

Stephen pointed with a single, steady finger. “I’m gonna kill you both.” 

He grabbed Casper from the back of his coat, and hefted the two of them up towards his brothers. Casper, swinging under his arms, was still in the midst of giggling himself into a stupor until he finally, apparently, got too heavy and was dropped into the snow by a cantankerous Uncle. 

The spirit watched, bemused.

Casper didn’t have time to deny or dispute before Amelia had flicked her wrist, and the day around them turned to dusk. The boy was back on the lawn after the crash, trying his best to stack snow. It got colder. The boy stubbornly stayed where he was, fixed on his snow-pile. 

The ghost floated a step away, fists by his sides. “He shouldn’t be out this late.”

“It gets dark so early this time of year.”

“Still. They just- just left him — _me_ — out here all alone! They had their fun and now they’re don-”

The door opened at the house, and spilled a beam of light into the snow. 

“Cas- _per_!” 

The boy looked behind him at the door. 

“Time to come home!” 

“Just a few more minutes…?”

“ _Now_ , short stuff. S’too cold out here. ‘Sides, dinner’s almost ready.” 

The boy reluctantly left his snow-pile behind him 

Amelia gave the tiniest hum. “Oh yes. _Very_ irresponsible of them.”

* * *

The Feeling had been growing.

Coiling up tighter inside him, it hissed and whispered, teasing and taunting the moment it might have chosen to strike. It had been getting stronger with every memory they’d seen, and the stronger it became, the harder it was to ignore. 

And yet, he ignored it. 

When the three Uncles had arrived, he’d ignored it. 

When there was yelling, and screaming, and fear, he’d ignored it. 

When the man had apologized in an attic, he’d ignored it. 

When the boy had thrown the snowball, crashed the sled, been swept up quick into spindly arms, he’d ignored it.

Now, watching the boy walk towards the house, and the Uncle at the open side door, he tried again. 

_It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real_.

The Feeling shifted in its coils, slithering in his chest and behind his eyes. It was vicious. Venomous. 

… Familiar. 

_It’s not real_ , he thought harder. 

The Feeling, fueled by the familiar only coiled up tighter, lifting its head. It’s voice was getting louder with every passing memory, and for the first time, he was not able to drown it out. 

_It’s not real_ , he tried again, eyes shut tight. 

The Feeling’s own eyes flashed; _But are you sure?_


	10. The Going and the Staying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stretch refuses to listen, Harvey looks at a picture, and Casper watches people leave.

_ “You realize there ain’t a place you can go in this house that I can’t use, right?” _

“Shut up.” Stretch flinched at every door he passed, away from the echoes that bombarded him no matter which way he turned.

_ Don’t you dare! _

_ You gotta eat lunch. _

_ You ever heard of the quiet game? _

_ You’re not looking! _

_ Uncle Stephen! _

_ Uncle Stephen! _

_ Uncle Stephen! _

_ “Every inch’a this house has shadows, old boy. An’ they’re all just waitin’ for you.” _

The voices were everywhere - the halls, the stairwells, every room - he couldn’t get away. Couldn’t shut them out, no matter how hard he tried.

_ “We can do this all night, but we won’t get anywhere. Won’t fix any of this.” _

He passed by the library doors again. The voices beyond were  _ real _ \- his brothers, the fleshies - and for a moment he paused. 

_ “There’s a good idea. Why don’t we go in? Ask the Doc what he thinks’a me?” _

Stomach churning, Stretch pushed on. Past the kitchen - full of soft, echoing laughter - further down, towards the back of the house, the rooms they rarely touched. He didn’t realize which door he was floating towards until he was nearly through it.

“No. No no no no no!”

_ “Too late.” _

* * *

Harvey was curious. 

Or. No. Curious wasn’t really the right word. 

Harvey was  _ concerned _ .

The entire day had been one landmine setting off of another, beginning with photographs thrown into a hearth one day before, to Casper’s sudden disappearance, to the slew of photographs and objects on their carpet being sorted through by two ghosts and his daughter. 

And it was all  _ concerning _ . 

But the punctuation of it all had been the one patient, now vanished from the room, who’d yet to return. 

“I don’t get it.” Fatso was flipping through photographs of the little ragtag group of Uncles and Nephew, passing them over to Stinkie when he was done with them. “I’ve been gettin’  _ so much _ from these, and then…  _ nothin’ _ .”

Harvey shook his head, looking away from the place Stretch had disappeared from just moments before. “Take your time. Memories are hard to access. They might be fuzzy at first-”

“That’s just it! They ain’t fuzzy or hard to see or on the tip of my tongue or  _ nothin’ _ . They just ain’t there!”

“He’s right, doc.” Stinkie was flipping through a few photos of his own, alternating between them and the few objects on the floor. “It’s a big, empty, dark spot.”

“Maybe it’s because you left.” Kat sat with her legs crossed, rereading the newspaper article. She put it down beside her knee, picking up the paper hat. “If you were there for only a year, you wouldn’t remember what came next.”

Fatso reached out, taking the paper had from her, weighing it in his hands with pinched brows. “Except that something  _ did _ come next.” 

“How do you know?”

“I just do…” He dragged in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you still have that last picture?”

Stinkie flipped through the stack he was holding, handing it over to his younger brother with a nod. 

Fatso took it, staring down at the little scene. The boy sitting between them in Union Suits. “I… don’t think this is the last picture…”

Kat looked up. “That’s all we’ve got.”

“But it’s not the last one…” He put it down, pulling the box closer to him. 

Harvey watched, standing closer to hover over the process going on in front of them.

The box was mostly empty except for a few small items. Another toy train. A few scripts, yellowed and faded. An old book, the cover almost too worn to read. A few packets of seeds. 

“You ain’t gonna find anything else,” Stinkie chided, furiously flipping through his own pictures again. 

Fatso didn’t answer, continuing his search until his hand fell on a thin packet folded at the bottom. 

It was a page full of numbers. 

Hundreds upon hundreds of numbers were printed inside cells of tightly packed columns. He unfolded it.

Stinkie looked up at the same time as Kat. Harvey leaned over, brow knit. 

“What’s that?”

“It’s Greek to me.” Fatso ran his hand along the numbers; up and down, black and red. 

“It’s something to do with money, I think” Harvey muttered. “Probably Stretch’s. You said he was there to manage the financials.”

“Probably,” Fatso furrowed his brow. “Wish I could understand-” He flipped one of the pages in the packet, and nearly lept back when something slid out and fluttered to the floor. “ _ What _ -!”

“Oh  _ holy shit! _ ” Stinkie’s hand shot out and caught the errant photo, laying it down so they could all see. Kat scrambled towards it, pushing her hair from her face, and her father kneeled by them, watching from above their heads. 

It was a single photo, taken on the front porch. It was a mirror of the first one they’d found, except when Kat reached out and flipped it over, the date told another story. 

_ October 3rd, 1887 _ .

“The last day,” Stinkie breathed. “ _ This is the last fuckin’ day _ …”

* * *

It was Springtime. 

It was the first thing that Casper noticed when the new memories began to appear; the quick shift of the world outside the windows. 

“April,” Amelia said. “Your Uncle Samuel would be gardening some new, experimental seeds, your Uncle Franklin was beginning to look through more scripts, and your Uncle Stephen was sending cleaners to his apartment in Boston for the first time in months.” The windows were open in the house, letting in the cool, Spring air. The world smelled like mulch and apple blossoms. “And  _ you _ had recently turned four years old. Without your father there.”

“Because he was working,” Casper insisted, looking out the window at the tulips that had just begun to bud through the dirt. 

“He was,” she agreed. “But you as a newly-four-year-old had a harder time understanding that. It was hard for you. It always was. But they kept you distracted for the days it took to get over it. And then it was life as normal again.”

Casper decided not to comment on the phrase by telling her that none of  _ this _ was Normal, but he bit his tongue. “So,” he said, following her as she perused slowly through the foyer. “What are you going to show me today? How  _ great _ my Uncle Fatso is? How  _ wonderful _ Uncle Stinkie was. Oooh,” he made a show of widening his eyes. “And what about good old Uncle Stretch? Can’t forget to praise him a few times.”

“Sarcasm is a waste of words, dear,” she sniffed. “Actually, I thought that I’d take time to show you some failures.” 

“What does that  _ mean _ ?”

“It means that you had one Uncle who absolutely did  _ not _ understand playing or children, and I wanted you to see that.”

He scoffed.  _ Why _ ?” 

“Because it’s important to see where he started. He tried everything thrown at him, even if he didn’t understand it. He didn’t get the hiding game, either. He didn’t get many games. But he kept trying.”

“ _ Why _ ?”

She stopped beside the bottom of the foyer steps, leaning on the rail, tilting her chin upwards towards the balcony. “Because you kept trying.” 

The boy appeared at the top of the steps before Casper could ask any other questions. He was dragging Stephen behind him. The tall man looked like he was concentrating very hard on not tripping while he bent over to let the child grip his hand. 

“Kid, slow down, would ya’? I’m not tryin’ ta’ crack my skull.”

“No! I found my wooden horse! We can play cowboys!”

“Uncle Stephen doesn’t play  _ cowboy _ .”

“Why!”

“Because cowboys don’t wear suits or invest in joint companies.” 

“That’s dumb!”

“So are cowboys. Sides. I have work.”

“It’s  _ Saturday! _ ” 

“Stock market don’t care.”

Casper jumped to the floor. Stephen stumbled behind. “You’re bad at playing.”

“Good mornin’ to you, too, bulbhead.”

“You have to get better at it. I’ll teach you. It’s easy.”

“I gotta work in an hour.”

“That’s okay! I can show you later. I’ll bring trains.” 

“Not happenin’.”

“Well there’s gotta be a game you  _ like _ .”

“Ever hear of the quiet game?”

“ _ Uncle Stephen. _ ” 

“You’re losing, bulbhead.” 

The two of them passed the ghosts by, Amelia chuckling, shaking her head. “He’d never get it, you know.”

“Never get what?”

“Playing make believe. It didn’t make sense to him.”

“Because he hates fun, and he hates me.”

“ _ No _ . Because he’s pragmatic. And practical. And things like imaginary worlds never made sense.”

“So?”

“So,” she said, tugging him along, “he put up with it anyway. Even when it didn’t make sense.” She snapped her fingers, and they were skirted away to the outdoors. The weather had changed, and the sky above them was dreary and gray, the sun suffocated just beneath. A misty rain was falling, and the red leaves outside were hanging on by their final threads. 

Off on the drive, a little boy was splashing in one of the puddles. 

“It’s late April now,” she said. “The tulips are sprouting. And look at the sapling! It’s grown at least a few inches since we last saw it!”

It had. Casper pretended not to look. 

“And look how cute you are,” she continued, beaming down at the little boy, splashing around in the drive.

Casper scowled up at the man standing cross-armed on the porch, glowering. . “He doesn’t look happy about this.”

Amelia snorted. “He rarely did. Get used to it.” 

“Uncle Stephen!” The boy shrieked and laughed when the water sprayed up. “Uncle Stephen! Look how deep it is!”

“Uh huh.” The glowering man said. 

“You’re not  _ looking!” _

“I’m lookin’.”

“You’re  _ not _ .”

“Am. All I see is mud.”

“That’s the point!”

“Not really gettin’ it.”

“You don’t  _ get _ it. You just  _ do _ it.”

“Who wins?”

“No one!”

“Ya’ lost me.” 

Casper stopped splashing to stand solemnly in the mud puddle. “If you  _ jump _ in the puddle,” he explained, talking to the man like a professor lecturing a room of difficult students, “then the mud  _ splashes _ .”

“Got it.”

“And it’s  _ fun _ ,” he explained, “because then you get  _ dirty _ .”

“Mmhm,” said the man. “And then Uncle Stephen gets ta’ give you a bath and wash your clothes. So there ain’t no winners. Just one loser.”

“It’s  _ fun _ !”

“It’s a pile’a work.”

“You should try it!”

Stephen scoffed. “Kid. There ain’t no way in hell you’re gettin’ me over there in  _ this suit _ . You know where this came from-?”

Casper surprised them all by rolling his eyes. “ _ Yes _ ,” he said, letting out an Oscar worthy sigh. He planted his hands on his hips and, in an accent overnighted out of Boston, nasaled out; “ _ all’a my suits are from Italy, so you’d better keep yer grubby little hands off _ ,  _ bulbhead, or it’s right ta’ the circus! _ ” 

Stephen gaped at him from beneath the shelter of the porch. 

The ghost of Casper choked on a horrified noise. 

Amelia grabbed onto the railing to catch her breath.

Stephen recovered first, blinking away the shock and awe to say, “Yeah. Well. You get mud on my shoes, and that’s where you’re endin’ up.” 

The boy splashed again, grinning. “Uncle Franklin was right. You do need playclothes.”

“That ain’t never happenin’.”

“And galoshes!”

“If you ever say that word around me-”

Amelia ended up doubled over again anyway when the kid splashed in the water and snarled, “ _Right ta’ the zoo,_ Cas _-per!_ _I’ll drag ya’ myself, even if my old, creaky bones can’t handle it_ -”

“Alright. That’s it.” 

Casper shrieked again and ran around the house towards the back door as Stephen strode after him shouting, “ _ No, wait, I got a new game. I wanna see how far I can throw you _ !” 

Amelia recovered after the memory faded away around the side of the house. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I didn’t know you could even do a Boston accent!”

Casper shrugged. 

“Does Kat know?”

“ _ No _ .”

“You’re full of hidden talents.” She gestured him up the stairs, “C’mon. I’ve got another.”

“Another  _ what _ ?”

“Another  _ Trying _ ,” she explained. “Like I said- he didn’t understand games or make-believe or children. It was hard for him to play. But you were a persistent child, and you were set on finding something for him. Your Uncle Franklin would do it all. Samuel was good for a book and some gardening. Stephen was… difficult.”

“Impossible.”

“Not for you he wasn’t. Everyone has their  _ thing _ , and so did he. And you found it. Because you were always a very clever child. And you wanted to include him, no matter what” 

She snapped her fingers again, and when he blinked they were back inside in the playroom. “This is July,” she explained, nodding to the bright green trees outside the open window. A warm breeze swept through, billowing the curtains. 

On the floor were two figures.

“Alright. So that goes  _ here _ -” The taller of the two was sitting on the floor with his legs extended, holding a train car that he placed down. 

“Yes!” Little Casper was climbing over Stephen’s legs to reach for another train, handing it to him. “An’ then we gotta get the other three over  _ there _ .”

The floor of the playroom had been cleared for what looked like a jumble of tracks and trains. 

“... what are they doing?” Casper peered over her shoulder. 

“Recreating the Wisconsin Central Line.”

“ _ What _ ?”

She pointed to an open book of trains on the floor. “They’re -  _ you’re _ \- recreating it.”

“That’s not  _ playing _ ,” said Casper, watching his Uncle snap his fingers for another piece of track. 

“It was to him. And to  _ you _ ! The weekend after this one, I think the both of you spent all day remaking the transcontinental down the foyer.” 

“Cas! Pass me the… the green one.”

“It’s a  _ boxcar _ , Uncle Stephen! I keep  _ telling  _ you..”

“Yeah. That one. The square car.” 

“Uncle  _ Stephen _ !”

The boy laughed. Casper felt something tickle in his throat and he swallowed fast, ignoring the burning of  _ are you sure _ behind his eyes. He turned away quickly from the scene, focusing on a patch of carpet in the hallway. 

_ Not real _

_ Are you sure? _

_ Not real _

_ Are you sure? _

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Well-”

“I know I made a deal, but…”

“ _ But _ ?

“But you keep doing  _ this _ .”

“Doing what?”

“Showing me things that aren’t  _ real _ .”

_ Are you sure _ , the voice hissed, getting louder. He closed his eyes. 

“Am I?” Amelia flicked her wrist and the memory faded. The playroom was left empty. “And what makes this moment less real?”

“You’re telling me he was… nicer.”

Amelia paused, giving her words thought. “I’m not showing you that he’s  _ nice _ ,” she said. “I’m showing you that he’s trying.”

He scoffed.

“It doesn’t excuse what he’s done in life,” she said, patiently. “And it doesn’t excuse what he’s done in the memories. And there would be more explosions, like I said in the attic. Not every moment was  _ this _ .”

She snapped her fingers, and they were at the top of the foyer steps. 

“Apparently, you seem to think the only real memories involve him  _ yelling _ . If that’s what you want to see, then I’m happy to provide.”

His anxiety began to creep up again. It was the last thing he wanted to see. But the memory had already started, and Ameliea was giving him a  _ Look _ , and so he clipped his mouth shut and watched. 

Ms. Danvers was the first player to enter, approaching the foot of the left-most foyer stairs to call up,  “Casper! Come and eat lunch, dear!”

A small voice called  _ okay! _ in response and, satisfied, she retreated in the direction of the kitchen. The boy appeared from his room, made it halfway to the landing, and then turned back, jogging away down the hall.

“What’s he-?” the ghost started to ask.

But then there were voices from the hall again and the boy reappeared, tugging Stephen along by the hand. “You didn’t eat breakfast!” the little voice piped. “You gotta eat lunch!”

“I’m really fine, kid.”

“Then how come I heard your belly grumble?”

“Being interrupted gives me indigestion.”

Casper laughed. “You’re weird. C’mon. Let’s go eat.”

"This is August," Amelia explained. "You had gotten so accustomed to them being around that your schedule became theirs. _His_." 

Amelia and Casper trailed after them into the kitchen. Franklin was already seated at the table, and Samuel was entering through the back door, brushing dirt from his hands. At the counter, Ms. Danvers was standing on tiptoe, reaching for a pitcher on the uppermost shelf.  The two brothers both had to look twice to make sure that their eldest was actually in the same room, but left it at that. 

The boy released Stephen’s hand to go give Franklin a hug, and the tall man moved, as if on autopilot, to the counter. He plucked the pitcher from the shelf and set it on the counter. Ms. Danvers bit back a shriek of surprise and then turned and smacked him on the arm. “God in Heaven, don’t  _ do _ that!”

“What? Help?” He rubbed his arm, frowning. “Fine, I won’t.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She snapped up the pitcher and strode to the sink, pausing a minute to turn and give him a once over, as if she’d been a ghost.  “What are you even doing down here?”

“I ain’t allowed in my own kitchen now?” He began pulling dishes down from the upper cabinets.

“Be careful with those.”

“What? With these?” He was suddenly smiling, balancing the stack of plates with one hand. “You want me to be careful with  _ these? _ ”

She glanced up from the tap and let out an angry squeak. “Stop that!”

“She  still loves Stephen,” Sameul whispered to the little Casper, jerking a thumb at the  middle- aged woman. “Just won’t admit it-”

“Really?” Casper wrinkled his nose, watching Ms. Danvers chase after his Uncle,  attempting to take the dishes out of his hands while he held them beyond her reach.

“How?” she said, exasperation written clearly on her face. “How is it that you can be  _ exactly _ as aggravating now as you were at seventeen?”

Stephen flashed his teeth at her. “Just talented, I guess.”

“Absolutely  _ wretched _ , you know that?” She shook her head, reaching for the dishes one more time, giving up when he dropped them onto the table, where they rattled together. “ _ Mr. McFadden _ !”

“Oh, it’s  _ Mr. McFadden _ now?”

“Only when you  _ infuriate _ me.” 

“Aw, come on, Nell. I can always replace the dishes. Loosen up!”

“Loosen-!” She choked. Made a squawking noise. Turned on him and marched to the pantry, muttering under her breath while Stephen followed behind her, saying something about  _ Come On Nell, You’re Taking it the Wrong Way _ while she told him to  _ Keep His Big Nose Out of Her Work _ .

“Oh yeah,” Franklin lifted Casper by his arms and deposited him on the bench at the table. “Your Uncle Stephen  courted her big time.  Brought her flowers, gifts, the whole kit and kaboodle. ”

“ _ Such _ a romantic,” Samuel teased. 

The living Casper kept watching his Uncle stroll back from the pantry, arms so full that a loaf of bread slipped from the pile and the housekeeper had to dive to catch it with a grumbled  _ Useless Man _ . His nose bunched. “But he’s so  _ grumpy _ .” 

Samuel swallowed back a laugh. “Back in the day, they were thick as thieves.” 

“Still went at it like cats and dogs, though,” Franklin added, shaking his head.

The four-year-old watched the pair snipe at each other, frowning. Suddenly, he slammed his little hands on the table and called out, “Uncle Stephen! She’s not gonna want to marry you if you keep yelling at her!”

All noise in the kitchen ceased.

In the doorway, unheard by the room’s occupants, Amelia snorted in laughter.

The eldest brother spun on his heel, red face and dark suit making him look like a matchstick just flicked against the box. “ _ Excuse me? _ ”

The boy shrank back, eyes wide. “Uncle Franklin said-”

Stephen took a menacing step forward and the child pressed himself into Franklin’s side. “Uncle Franklin’s gonna find himself in the soup if he can’t keep his mouth shut about other people’s business,” he seethed, fiery gaze turning from his brother to his nephew. “And as for  _ you.- _ ”

“I told you,” the ghostly Casper hissed, tugging on Amelia’s sleeve, pointing towards the child below them, eyes huge, fisting Franklin’s suit with trembling hands. “I told you - even if it’s real, it’s all the  _ same _ .  Nothing’s changed. He’s going to… to throw me out the door or give me chores for a week, or… or-”

“Step back.”

The voice in the memory cut him short, and he looked back at the scene. 

Unlike the last time, Franklin’s arm wrapped around his nephew, setting his steady gaze onto his eldest brother. “Step back, Stephen.” 

“But he-”

“Casper didn’t do anything,” 

The child’s eyes were filling up fast, and he opened his mouth to quiver out, “I’m s-” but Franklin cut him off, squeezing his shoulders. 

“Casper didn’t do anything,” he said again, looking up at his brother. “And you’re doing  _ better _ . So step.  _ Back _ .” 

The words filled the kitchen in its tense silence, surrounding the scared boy and the man who was beginning to falter in his anger. 

Samuel pushed back from his seat, rounding the table to stand by Stephen’s side. “Why don’t we go out for a smoke. Yeah? Take a break. I’m sure Nell could use less of you in the kitchen.”

“ _ Absolutely _ .” Nell nodded, looking between the little family. “Take him out. Lunch’ll be ready soon, anyway.”

Stephen, still standing where he’d been hovering over the child,  blinked . He looked around him, like he was seeing the kitchen for the first time, and noticed everyone’s gaze. And the position he was in; standing over his little nephew. His ears flushed again, and for a moment he sank, looking as lost as the child below, unsure of where to put the anger that was going flat inside him. 

And Casper, floating above them, still clinging to Amelia’s sleeve, felt just as helpless in finding the right words, too. 

“Stephen?” Samuel said, giving his brother another tug. 

“Yeah,” Stephen finally mumbled, stepping away. He cleared his throat, eyes flickering away from his nephew, drifting around the room. “But I’m taking one’a yours.”

“That’s fine. Come on.” And the middle brother dragged him out by the elbow. 

A door down the hall to the back yard opened, and then swung closed. 

Still on the bench, surrounded by Franklin’s arms, Casper looked up misty eyed at his Uncle. His voice quavered when he asked, “Did I do somethin’ wrong?” 

“‘Course not,” the deep baritone rumbled as the big man pressed a kiss to the fair hair. 

“I made Uncle Stephen  _ mad _ .” 

“Uncle Stephen made  _ himself _ mad,” Franklin corrected. “That ain’t on you. You understand me?”

Little Casper sniffed, nodding. “He looked so scary,” Casper said, rubbing his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Franklin sighed. He grabbed a napkin from the table, wiping Casper’s face. “But he’s always been a little like that. Always been a little prickly.” 

At the sink, Nell filled a glass of water. “Here, sweetheart.”

Casper took it with two hands and a mumbled  _ thank you _ .

“But you want to know something?” Franklin brushed back the kid’s hair while he took a sip of water. 

“Mmmhm.”

“You got him down here, in the kitchen with us! That hasn’t happened since…” The big man tapped his chin. “Since we all left home.”

“Really?” Casper tilted his head up.

“Nope. Six months ago, was he even  _ thinkin’ _ about eatin’ with us?”

The blonde head shook once.

“An’ he was smilin’ for a minute there, ‘fore he got embarrassed. Right, Nell?”

The housekeeper nodded. “Almost seemed like the man I remembered for a change.”

“You knew Uncle Stephen back then?”

“Oh yes,” she said, leaning on the table. “I’m only a few years older, but we’ve been in this house together since we were both children. We grew up side by side.  _ I _ cleaned the house and cooked the dinners, and  _ he _ wrote me horrible poetry.”

A tiny bubble of a disbelieving laugh floated up as the child raised his head. “Really?”

She smiled. “Mmhmm. And I’ve still got it tucked away.” She turned her gaze to Franklin. “ _ Don’t _ ask me where. But next time, dear, you just remember; that big, tall, scary man tried to compare my eyes to mud.” She smoothed out her apron. “But it’s been nice. Seeing that Stephen return. Even if it isn’t with a horrible new classic in hand.”

“See?” Franklin laid a hand on the boy’s back. “Your Uncle Stephen, he's probably gonna make himself mad once in a while for _ ever _ . But what he’s doin’ now? He’s  _ tryin’ _ , kid. And he never tried for nobody before. That’s all you.”

Casper looked between them, a small smile blossoming on his face. “For me.”

“Yup.” The big man chucked the boy’s chin. “Ya done pretty good, short stuff.” He leaned in closer. “Ya wanna know somethin’ else?”

“What?”

“I bet Uncle Stephen  he feels pretty bad right now.” 

“... should we take him a sandwich?”

“That sounds  _ great _ , Cas.” Franklin lifted his nephew up to set him on his feet. 

Ms. Danvers set sandwiches wrapped in parchment paper on the table.

Casper picked up one, then a second, and looked at his full hands, dismayed. He turned to Franklin, who chuckled, knowing the question before it was even asked.  “I’ll take the rest. Ready?” 

“Mmmhm.” 

“I’ll bring out lemonade,” Ms. Danvers told them, ushering them through the back door. 

Still in the kitchen, unseen by the Memories, Casper scoffed again. 

Amelia walked through the kitchen, looking about. “Something on your mind?” 

“The kid just doesn’t know what’s coming for him.”

“Oh?”

“No,” Casper said. “Like I said. You  _ don’t know them _ . None of this could have happened.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s  _ true _ . And even if it did happen, then that just means all of this-” He gestured out to the kitchen, to where the memory had been just moments ago, “-goes away. And that they're eventually going to get to a point where they hate me instead.” 

Amelia hummed. “Well,” she said, walking through the back door in the kitchen, not waiting to see if he would follow, “that certainly is an interesting theory.”

Casper did follow her. Mostly because sulking alone in a kitchen was no fun. He followed her through the halls towards the back door, where Franklin and Casper had vanished through minutes before. 

On the back lawn, he could see the little Casper still clutching his Uncle’s hand and the sandwich. Just beyond that, the other two men stood on the bluff, smoke curling up and away in the sea-breeze.  Samuel turned first, noticed the others approaching, and smacked Stephen on the arm. The taller man also turned, and he suddenly wasn’t quite so tall anymore. Spine curling, shoulders hunched, he tossed his cigarette in the grass and stomped on it.

For a moment, the four of them stood, Casper tucked behind Franklin’s legs, Stephen trying to shrink away behind Samuel.

Then Casper stepped forward,  his Uncle Franklin giving him a gentle push. 

He said something, too quiet to hear, standing on his toes with a sandwich wrapped in parcel paper extended out.  Stephen had to stoop down to accept the offering, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. Then the long legs were folding and the man was sitting on the grass, the boy following suit.

The spindly man said something. They were too far away and couldn’t hear much more than the ocean crashing just over the bluffs. The boy said something down to his knees, kicking at a tuft of grass. Then the man reached out. Hesitated, pulling back a moment. Reached out again. His hand carefully drifted over the boy’s hair, pulling back to flick his downturned face, saying something again with a wry, nervous smile. 

The boy’s shoulders shook, and the Ghostly Casper was sure that the younger, living him was crying. But when the boy looked up, all he could see was a smile. 

The four sat on the grass together then, unwrapping their lunches. 

The boy settled close to his tallest Uncle, and Casper turned away before he could see the wirey arm drape across small shoulders. 

* * *

The photo stared up at the little group, sitting beside the financial docket it had come from. The faces and eyes watched the group as intensely as the black and red numbers. 

Kat flipped it back over. Harvey, from his spot, noticed a few things about it right away. “You must have taken it a few minutes before leaving,” he said. “See the suitcases?”

“Oh jeez, yeah, doc. You’re right.” Fatso touched the picture. Casper looked an inch or two taller than he had in the first, and was clinging to his leg. He winced, touching his brow. 

Harvey looked up. “Memory?”

“Sort of. Just… just of us leaving. Gettin’ into the carriage. And then…” He extended his hands, palms open. “Nothin’.” 

Their doctor sat back, leaning against the chair just behind him. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “It’s strange…”

His daughter glanced up at him. “Dad?”

“It’s just odd, don’t you think?”

Stinkie frowned, eyes flickering between his therapist and the photograph on the carpet. “What is?”

“You’re remembering things because there are objects and pictures attached to the memories.”

“Right,” Fatso nodded. “These help.”

“And being in that…  _ place _ gave you a chance to remember your time with Casper, because you saw things that sparked those memories.”

“Right,” Fatso said again. 

“And you know I don’t like to  _ assume _ anything, gentleman, but I don’t have enough to go on right now to do anything else. So I’m going to  _ assume _ that, like my daughter said, the reason you lost time is because there’s nothing else here to connect you to it.” He reached out, picking up the financial docket, flipping through it. “But it’s  _ odd _ …”

It was all odd. 

“Dad?” Kat crawled closer. 

Harvey put the docket down onto his knees, rubbing his temples. “Don’t you think it’s a little…  _ weird _ that you two were looking at all of the pictures, remembering-”

“Nothin’ about that is weird, Doc,” said Stinkie.

“But you were looking at the pictures,” Harvey said. “You remembered because you were looking at the pictures…”

“Dad. What do you-”

“But Stretch,” he finished, slowly, “wasn’t allowed  _ near _ them.” 

The little room fell silent, save for the crackling in the hearth. 

“He…” Kat swallowed. “He saw them-”

“He didn’t, Kat.” Harvey shook his head. “You kept him away.” When his daughter opened her mouth, he held up a hand. “I’m not saying you were  _ wrong _ for doing it. I’m just saying; he was over there. The whole time. And he…  _ remembered _ . Or was trying very hard not to.” 

“But…” Stinkie shook his head. “No.  _ No _ . He wasn’t-”

“A memory came out of him.”

“He was being  _ dramatic _ ,” the ghost shot back. “He wants to be the center of attention!”

“ _ Or _ …” Harvey said, sliding his glasses back on. “Or he has enough of a connection to these memories to make this  _ possible _ .” He saw the moment that anger sparked in both ghosts eyes and held his hands out. “I’m not saying that these moments meant less to you. But something about all of this was different enough to trigger him.” He ignored their angry, vindictive stares between him and the place where their brother had been before. He reached down and picked up the picture again, putting the docket beside him. 

“You know Stretch better than anyone. He’s been my patient here for a  _ year _ . You know, as much as I do that he doesn’t open up. He dodges and he weaves. He doesn’t let things get to him. He made it a whole point that he  _ wouldn’t _ ” He smoothed out the picture, staring down at it. 

The red lights were blaring now.

Something about the picture…

_ Something _ …

“And then suddenly he sees the pictures of your brother and something… changed.”

“Because he fuckin’ wants to make it all about him,” Stinkie growled. “Like he  _ always _ does.”

“This was different.”

“ _ How _ .”

“Because something  _ changed _ when we began bringing up the past. He never even saw what was in this box, and  _ still _ …” He combed back his hair, looking harder down at the picture. 

Something. 

_ Something _ .

It was right there. He  _ knew _ it was right there. 

If he could just-

“It doesn’t make sense,” Fatso snarled. 

“I know.”

“ _ We _ were good to the kid.”

“I  _ know _ ,” said Harvey, searching. . 

“ _ We _ went there to help. For a whole year, we went back to help. To be  _ with _ the kid. For a whole year-” Something in Fatso’s voice cracked, and he pulled it back quick. “We were there, and we helped the kid. And Stretch  _ didn’t _ .”

Harvey shook his head, rubbing his brow. He stared down at the picture. “I know, Fatso. I know.”

“Doc. Come on,” Stinkie moved closer, face bunched. “Everything we gotta know about him and the kid and us - it’s all  _ here _ . Like Amelia said… the key to gettin’ him back is if we  _ remember _ .”

“But that isn’t working,” said Harvey. “Because there’s a big empty spot.”

“We could fill it,” Fatso insisted. “We just need to keep doing this.”

Harvey stared at the picture. At the four sepia faces. At the faces of the men and the boy below them. He traced his thumb along the outline, searching. 

_ Something _ . 

“I don’t think you can do it without Stretch,” Harvey murmured. 

“We  _ can _ ,” Stinkie hissed. “We don’t  _ need _ ‘m!” 

Fatso’s brow furrowed. “Doc?”

Harvey wasn’t listening. 

His eyes flickered across the figures on the porch. At Franklin and Samuel. At the boy holding on. At the man behind them. At the suitcases. 

His heart stuttered. “Where’s the first picture?”

“Dad?” Kat was on her knees. “What-”

“The first picture we found,” he said, glancing up, eyes wild. “I need to see it.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, “I think I might have figured something out.”

* * *

The men (and one boy) came in from lunch a little while later. Amelia pointed them out to Casper, bringing him to one of the side doors in the mansion. 

The child was in Franklin’s arms, and his Uncle set him down with a jovial order of “go play - we’ll catch up to you later, short stuff.”

“Okay!” the child squeaked out. He went to run, turning around  briefly to hug Stephen’s legs without a word, before galloping off.

Casper moved to follow after himself, but Amelia stayed put, drawing him back with a hand.

Stephen was watching the place where the boy had been, a curious sort of smile on his face. “That- that could’a gone worse, right?”

Franklin clapped him roughly on the shoulder, making him stagger a step forward. “You kiddin’? You sat in the grass? And ate lunch with us? I feel like I witnessed a miracle!” the big man chuckled.

Samuel took his armload of crumpled parchment paper to the wastebasket. “He’s got a point. “Can’t remember the last time I actually saw you eat - kinda figured you lived on cigarettes and brandy these days.”

Stephen rolled his shoulders, ears flushed. “Everyone’s a goddamn comedian.”

Ms. Danvers took the half-full pitcher of lemonade to the icebox. “What I think your brothers are trying to say, in their own vaudevillian way,” she said, “is that it’s good to have you back, Stephen.”

The color in his ears deepend and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t go nowhere.”

Franklin cleared his throat, sat down on top of the kitchen table, his teasing smile softening. “Before Em died - when’s the last time we spoke?”

The eldest brother stared hard at the floor.

“Yeah, I can’t remember either.”

“We all had shit to do,” Stephen offered weakly.

Samuel drew closer. “Didn’t stop the two of us,” he said, jerking a thumb at the youngest brother.

“Yeah, well the two’a you practically live next door to each other.”

“Heh, think we need to get you out to Chicago one’a these days - s’a  _ big _ city,” Franklin said. “Nah, you got busy ‘cause that’s what you wanted to do. An’ I get it. But we still missed ya.”

Stephen swallowed, eyes darting between the other adults in the room. “I-” He shook his head, stared at his shoes. Swallowed again. “Didn’t know that.” 

“That ‘cause ya never wrote, moron.” Franklin hopped down from the table. He brought a hand down on Stephen’s shoulder again, more gently this time. “Today was  _ good. _ With the kid. Ya did  _ good _ .”

The eldest scoffed, rolled his eyes, but a tiny smile found its way onto his face regardless. “Yeah, yeah.” He took a step back, towards the door. “I got work. But I’ll, uh, I’ll see ya at dinner, yeah?”

“We’ll be here,” Samuel said.

“Any requests?” Nell asked.

“Uh.” The question caught him halfway to the door and he paused. 

“Seeing as how it’s to be the first time the four of you sit down together since you’ve arrived. Rather momentous.” She smoothed her apron, and pointed a demure smile his way.

He faltered, fumbled with all of their eyes on him, ultimately stammering out, “Surprise me,” before ducking quickly out of the room.

Franklin and Samuel laughed quietly and then the big man turned to the housekeeper, “Where’d you say those poems were?”

“I  _ didn’t _ .”

“Aw, c’mon, we’re gonna need some after-dinner entertainment!”

Amelia was echoing their laughter as they faded away. “You brought him back to them,” she said with a smile.

“Huh?” Casper turned her way.

“They’d lost him. Since they’d left home. Being back in the house didn’t bring him back to them. You did.”

The little ghost huffed. “If only any of this were  _ real. _ ”

“Right.”

* * *

The house was lit with the soft pink glow of dawn as the pair of spirits stood in the second floor hallway. “What now?” Casper asked. “I feel like we’ve been watching  _ fake _ memories for ages. You said I only have so much time-”

“I’m managing our time just fine, don’t you worry,” Amelia told him. “It’s barely 9 AM back at Whipstaff.”

He balked. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “We’ve got a  _ lot _ to cover, so I slowed things down for us. I can also do this.” She waved a hand at the hallway-

-and instead of moving in real-time, it was as if she’d pressed ‘fast forward’ on the world. Dozens of dawns suddenly were brightening and fading before them, and the figures were moving hummingbird-quick. Over and over, the memory of himself at four emerged from his room, sped down the hall to one of three other doors, ducked inside, and emerged with an uncle in tow. 

“None of them had  _ ever _ been early risers before you,” Amelia said with a grin. “But you’re internal alarm went off every day at-”

“6:03,” he said without thinking.

“Mmhmm. Like clockwork.” She chuckled. “Poor men. Franklin learned to love it. Samuel was always much too groggy to put up a fight. Stephen...well, let’s just say that lion’s den got visited with less frequency early on.”

“Early on?” Casper asked, eyes still on the buzzing figures in the hall.

“As you got used to each other, as he became less intimidating, things shifted.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah right.”

“I  _ am _ right. Oh! But wait.” She raised her hand and the figures froze. A flick of her wrist and they were suddenly moving just as quickly in reverse.

“What?”

“Oh, there’s a particular morning I really enjoyed. Hold on, which one...ah! Yes! Here we are.” She pointed and things went back to normal speed. 

It looked like any other dawn, the little boy padding down the hall in his union suit and socks, already brimming with energy. He picked the furthest door down, crept inside. 

Amelia snapped her fingers and suddenly the pink dawn light was a bright mid-morning yellow.

“Wait, what? Was that  _ it _ ?” Casper turned to his guide, incredulous.

“Oh no.” She was smirking. “It’s just better if it’s a surprise.”

The door nearest to his own opened and Stephen stepped out into the hall.  Wearing slippers and a robe over a pair of fitted, matching pajamas, the man wandered out into the quiet hallway, glancing around. He frowned.

“What’s he looking for?”

Amelia snorted. “The chaos, probably.” She watched the man peer into one of the empty rooms. “You come to expect it when you’ve got a child in the house. And if you don’t  _ see _ it, that means it’s somewhere else. And the best next-step is to find it before it destroys something.” 

“Does he find it?”

The woman’s eyes danced. “Well now. Let’s find out.”

The pair followed the man down the stairs.

Stopped when he stopped a few steps from the foyer.

Leaned around him to spot Ms. Danvers on her way out of the hall that led to the kitchen, feathers  _ clearly _ ruffled. “Morning…?” he said hesitantly.

She stopped at the base of the stairs, glanced up at him and seemed oddly relieved. “At least  _ someone  _ in the house still has an ounce of sense,” she muttered.

“Come again?” He completed his trip down the stairs, eyebrows high.

She shook her head, inhaled sharply through her nose and let it out in a  _ whoosh _ . “I’m taking the rest of the day off. If the lot of you have put your heads back on straight this evening you  _ might  _ be able to convince me to come and help prepare dinner. If not? Don’t bother knocking. God-willing, you’ll see me tomorrow.”

Declaration complete, she strode from the room.

Stephen watched her depart, one eyebrow raised. He shook his head, straightened his robe, and pushed the door to the kitchen open. “Think you boys finally managed to break Ms. Dan-”

He froze in the doorway.

Behind him, Amelia phased through the wall, gesturing for Casper to follow, which he did, curiosity piqued-

-and rewarded.

The boy was standing on a stool at the kitchen counter, still dressed in only his union suit and socks.

And his uncles were dressed to match.

Franklin glanced up from the cast iron pan he was monitoring on the stove and grinned widely. “Mornin’!”

“Uncle Stephen!” Casper turned, smile equally big. 

Leaning against the counter next to the boy, Samuel raised his coffee cup. “Bout time you got up. Almost missed pancakes.”

Stephen stared. And stared. And stared some more. 

“I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart,” he said, “that I despise you all.”

“Aw, you’re no fun!” 

“Yeah!” Said Casper. “No fun!”

Samuel snorted, lifting Casper up off the stool to set him on the counter. “What do ya’ think, short stuff. Should Uncle Stephen dress down, too?”

“Yeah!”

“Uncle Stephen’ll drink rat poison before he does that,” said the man at the doorway. 

“No fun,” said Casper again. 

“No fun,” agreed Samuel, sagely. 

Franklin deposited the first pancake off the pan and onto a plate. “And to think we were gonna stay like this  _ all _ day!”

Stephen’s eye twitched. 

“Uh-oh, Cas,” said Franklin, watching his brother do his best to remember what words were, “I think he jammed some gears!”

Stephen shook his head. He cleared his throat, nodding. “Right,” he said. “You’re all a bunch’a idiots, and I ain’t catchin’ it.” 

“When’d you get ta’ be such a stick in the mud, hmm?” Franklin asked. He set another pancake on the plate and offered the plate to Casper. “Ya know when we were kids, he was the one who liked clothes the least.”

The boy looked like he enjoyed that information even more than the pancakes. “ **_Really?_ ** ”

“ _ Franklin. _ ”

“Shame cameras weren’t around back then,” Samuel said over his cup.

Little Casper picked up the top pancake with his fingers, took a bite, and then spoke around the mouthful. “Wha’ else was Unca’ Steph’n wike?”

“Oh.” Franklin chortled. “Have  _ I _ got some stories for  _ you _ , kid.”

“On  _ that _ note,” Stephen said, hand back on the door. “I’ll be in my office. Call me when you’ve decided ta act like civilized human bein’s again.”

He was met with a chorus of protests and begging -  _ noooo! stay! - c’mon, man - pweeeease? - _ and for a tiny,  _ tiny _ moment he hesitated, looking between them all. 

From the far side of the room, the ghost watched. 

Watched the man stand apart, spine straight, shoulders up.

Watched the shoulders sink, the spine relax, the soft sigh slip out.

Stephen pointed at Samuel. “Put a shot’a whiskey in my coffee.”

The boy on the counter  _ whooped. _

“That’s the spirit!” Franklin cheered as Samuel pulled the liquor from an upper cabinet. 

“You touch my robe an’ I’ll bite yer nose off.”

“Love you too.”

Casper blinked when the memory faded from around him. Almost as quickly as it had arrived, it was gone. The kitchen was empty, and quiet, and cold. 

He looked up at Amelia. “What happened?”

She looked about the empty kitchen, considering it carefully. “I’ve been spending this entire time showing you memories.”

“But-”

She stopped him with an open hand. “Whether or not you think they’re fake isn’t the point right now.” 

His eyes swept over the empty kitchen again. Where his eldest Uncle had stood. Where the pancakes had been frying. Where he’d sat on the counter in the midst of it all. “Then… what is the point?”

“One year.”

He turned back towards her. On the wall, a clock ticked steady and slow. The house was silent all around, memories tucked away into their own pockets. He could feel then, though. Waiting and watching, like little stars tucked away behind a cloudy night. It sent shivers down his arms, and he folded them across his chest. 

“One year,” she said again. “All that I’ve been showing you? All these little moments? They’re not random, and they’re not without their meaning. They were moments of a home. Moments of a  _ family _ . But they had their expiration date.”

“One year,” he repeated. The words felt sour on his tongue. “If… if this is real… then that’s what they said at the beginning…” He breathed in. “The housekeeper. Ms. Danvers. She said that, too.” 

“That’s right.” She nodded. “The three of them were called here because your father was away. His wife had passed, he had business, and he left the house.”

He went to interrupt with another counterpoint. She gave him a look, and his jaw snapped shut. 

“One year,” she said again. And then she motioned around the kitchen. “These happy moments were conditional. It’s a sad truth, but an honest one, nonetheless. And this moment? It was one of the very last of that year.”

Casper froze, staring at the empty kitchen. 

The empty kitchen watched him back. 

“ _ This _ happy moment, all of these moments, could only last so long. And they knew that. Your Uncle Franklin had another play and a steadily rising career. He couldn’t sacrifice it. And your Uncle Samuel had taken a year away from his University, and they’d begun to call him again with reminders.”

“So… so if this is real, then after this, they’d leave?”

A nod. 

“And if this is real…” Casper felt an unexpected heat rise behind his eyes, “then I’d be alone again.” 

Amelia held out a hand. “We have one more thing to see.” 

He took her fingers within his own, and the world shifted once more. 

* * *

The billiards room still smelled like lemons.

It was the cleaner that Casper had used yesterday. Lemon. He’d smelled it when he’d come through, right before he’d flown back up to kids’ the room and-

“ _ Right before ya burned all those pictures. Real smooth move, there _ .”

“Shut  _ up _ .”

The room was dim. The light wasn’t on, and outside, the dark clouds had mostly choked away the sun. Rain pattered the windows. 

“ _ But that’s what you did _ ,” the voice pointed out, tone glazed in venom. “ _ Because you felt something when you looked at them _ .”

“I didn't-”

“ _ You did. _ .”

Stretch swallowed, fists at his sides tightening. “How the fuck-”

“ _ Because I’m the reason you feel it, asshole _ .” 

Stretch turned around, as if he could face the voice head on with every ounce of his fury. No one was there. “What does that mean,” he hissed. “ _ You’re _ the reason.”

The voice laughed. It was a thin, sour noise. “ _ Maybe that ain’t the best way to say it. You’re the reason. I’m the reason. We’re the reason. _ ”

“Speak English.”

“ _ I  _ **_am._ ** _ You’re just not  _ **_listening_ ** _. _ ”

Stretch went silent, biting hard at the inside of his cheek. 

“ _ When you became a ghost, you pushed a lot of shit away. Memories. Moments…  _ **_Tragedies_ ** _. And you locked it up tight. And when you did that, you locked me up, too.  _ _ Cut me off. Like a leg with gangrene. _ ” There was a bitterness to the way he said those words. A furious sharpness that set Stretch’s teeth on edge. “ _ But I ain’t a war wound. Can’t bite a bullet, lop me off, and be done. It don’t work like that. _ ”

A flurry of emotions fell over him, like rain against a window. 

He bent over, gagging. All of the pain and the cold and the twisting at his chest returned. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

Couldn’t see. 

Couldn’t speak or yell or scream. 

And beneath the Hurt and the Fear, voices rose clear beneath the fog. 

_ You push, Uncle Stephen!  _

_ I’m sorry! _

_ Go away! I hate you! _

He gulped in a breath. 

And then, like being in the eye of a storm, it stopped. 

“ _ You might’a buried me, but did you really think that was gonna be the end of it? _ ” 

Stretch coughed, wincing. “Fuck you.” 

“ _ I kept tryin’ ta’ get out.  _ _ For  _ **_years._ ** **Decades** _.  _ _ And the more I tried, the _ _ closer to the surface I got. And the closer I got, the more I started to see the  _ **_cracks._ ** _ I could slip through, just a little, before you’d shove me back down even harder. But those cracks? You couldn’t patch ‘em. And the place the kid is now? Bein’ in there was  _ **_exactly_ ** _ the chance I needed.. _ _ And now that  _ _ I’m out _ _ , there ain’t no way in Hell I’m goin’ back  _ _ under _ _. _ ”

“Ghosts forget things,” Stretch snarled back, “because it don’t matter no more.”

“ _ Bullshit. The moment you started to remember, you _ _ tried to bury it again _ _. _ ”

“Because it don’t  _ matter _ .”

“ _ Because it hurts. _ ” 

Another voice echoed, nearly drowned out by the rain. 

_ If we found out you were lyin ’ to us… oh Casper . I’m sure no one wants to find out what we’d do then. _

_ “He was so afraid _ ,” said the voice.  _ “So afraid of you. Of what you’d do.” _

The tinglings of the pain returned, and Stretch squeezed his eyes, breathing in deep. They faded again, but stayed just out of sight; little cobwebs, clinging inside. 

When he opened them, he was faced again with the sight of the empty, dim billiards room. 

“ _ You always hated this room _ .”

“You can’t hate a  _ room _ . S’just a room.”

“ _ Bullshit. You hate it. You avoid it. You didn’t even want to be here while you were scarin’ him. _ ”

“I  _ don’t _ .” 

The tendrils of anxiety were creeping up and he tried to ignore them. They only threaded through faster. He turned around to leave, ready to phase back through the wall, but something held him back. 

“ _ Can’t do that, Stretch old boy _ . _ Not anymore. _ ”

“Let me out!”

“ _ I can’t do that. _ ” 

“You brought me here.”

“ _ You brought us here _ ,” the voice said. “ _ And you’re keeping us here _ .”

“I’m not-” Stretch began to say, before another  _ twist _ to his chest had him doubled over. He wheezed. “Who,” he panted out, once it had subsided. “Who the fuck do you think you are.”

_ “You know.” _

“I  _ don’t _ . I keep sayin’-”

_ “You keep ignorin’. There’s a difference _ .”

“It doesn’t make any sense!”

_“You know who I am because I’m you. You’re me. We’re us._ _You know_ _our_ _name-_ ”

“I don’t  know who or  _ what _ the hell  _ you _ are,” he ground out. “But  _ my  _ name is Str-”

Another horrible twisting, and Stretch had to grab hold of the side of the pool table. The weight of a whole world was upon him. 

“ _ You know  _ **_our_ ** _ name- _ ”

“I don’t know your fuckin’-  _ shit! _ ” 

The feeling tightened. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

He couldn’t see. 

He couldn’t feel anything but this. This horrible weight. The horrible burning, searing, cutting weight. 

“Stop it!”

“ _ You have to say- _ ”

“Make it fuckin’  _ stop _ !”

“ _ Only if you say  _ **_our_ ** _ - _ ”

“ _ It’s Stephen! Now leave me the fuck alone! _ ” 

And just like that, the feelings pooled from him and vanished away, and he was left in the aftermaths of the hurt, like a building crushed by a quaking Earth. He drew in a shaking breath, feeling it rattle inside him. 

Even unseen, he could hear the voice smiling. “ _ Now we’re gettin’ somewhere. _ ” 

“ _ Screw you _ ,” Stretch bit back. He finally managed to lift his head from where it had dipped. His left hand still clutched the side of the pool table, but he’d slipped down to kneel on the persian rug. 

When he blinked, the blur leaving his eyes, he was face to face with etchings. 

The next pain was all his own. 

He rose quickly, fist slamming down hard on the lip of the table. “Just let me leave. I’ll listen to your stupid fuckin’ talk, but let me  _ leave _ .”

“ _ No _ .”

“Why not!”

The voice was shifting again, and the venom it held before was pulsing through once more. “ _ Because you have to watch. _ ” 

“Why do I-”

“ _ I had to watch _ ,” the voice hissed. “ _ Everythin’ you ever did. To them. To  _ **_him_ ** _. I had to fuckin’ watch. _ _ Buried under all your bullshit, grasping through the cracks _ _ ,  _ _ tryin’ ta  _ _ make ya’ feel somethin’  _ _ once in a while _ _ ,  _ _ only ta have ya toss me back in an even deeper hole each time _ _. But now _ ?”  He laughed, low and cold and calculating.  “ _ Now, it’s your fuckin’ turn _ .”

Stretch swallowed. “I don’t gotta do  _ shit _ .”

“ _ Oh, but ya’ do. Because ya’ chose this room for a reason. And you’re keeping us  _ **_here_ ** _ for that same reason. _ ”

“I ain’t-” 

He didn’t get to finish before new voices were around him, surging up from the woodwork. He closed his eyes again, slipping back to the floor. It just made the voices louder. 

_ It’s too much- _

_ You’re talkin’ about- _

_ I can’t leave ‘im. _

“ _ You chose this room because you know somethin’ happened here. Something important.” _

_ “ _ I  _ didn’t.” _

_ “Then look at them again _ .”

He kept his eyes closed. 

“ _ You saw them. You know they’re there, _ ” the voice hissed. “ _ Look at them. _ ”

“Fuck you.”

There was another surge of voices. 

_ Gotta mark the date. _

_ It’s tradition! _

_ Don’t want to forget this. _

“ _ When you got kicked out of school- _ ”

“Shut up.”

“ _ When you got your first job _ -”

“I don’t fuckin’ care!”

“ _ When the little brat was born _ -”

“Don’t call’m that.”

“ _ Why? We’ve called him worse _ .” The voice pressed harder around him. “ _ You used this room to mark every single important event. But a few stand out. And one happened right here. In this room _ .”

He pressed his fists against the carpet. 

“ _ Look at it _ .”

Stretch squeezed his eyes tighter. 

“ _ Fine _ ,” the voice growled. “ _ Have it your way _ .”

Another surge of feelings flushed over him, from below, above, left, right. Hands grasping his shoulders. The weight of something in his palm. The sound of wood scraping. A voice, on repeat. 

_ I can’t leave ‘im. _

_ I can’t leave ‘im. _

_ I can’t leave ‘im. _

He opened his eyes, surfacing for air. 

And there they were again. 

The etchings. Listed one after the other against the grain of the table leg. 

“ _ We made the decision here, _ ” said the Voice. For a moment, the feelings around him softened. “ _ One of the first of many we’d make. Before it all went down _ .”

Stretch didn’t realize his hand had lifted before it was touching the scrapes in the wood. His own initial beside the frozen moment in time. 

_ Oct 1st, 1887 _

“This is…” He said, the words falling out of him before he could stop them. 

“ _ It is,” _ said the voice. “ _ The decision that started it all _ .” 

The billiards room no longer smelled like lemons.

Instead, tobacco smoke and brandy surrounded him. 

He wanted to leap back. To escape. But he was frozen in place as, around him, shadows passed back and forth. The sound of clacking pool balls echoed off the corners. The scrape of a knife on wood. 

“...  _ what the fuck _ ,” he whispered. “ _ What’s happening? _ ”

“ _ A memory _ ,” his voice replied. “ _ Our memory _ .”

The next pain that surged was in Stretch’s chest. A familiar pain. 

His own pain. 

Stretch kept his eyes closed, pushing everything as far back as he could.

He was met with laughter. 

“ _ Your days of keepin’ me buried are  _ **_done_ ** _ , Stretch, _ ” the Voice,  _ his _ Voice,  _ Stephen’s  _ Voice said. “ _ And we’ve got work to do. _ ” 

* * *

The sky outside was dark. An occasional oil lamp lit up a corridor, but most of the rooms bore no light within. Even the kitchen was quiet. In the middle of the foyer, Casper glanced up at Amelia. “Where is everyone?”

The woman gestured at the grandfather clock. “Where most people are at one in the morning. Asleep.”

“Then why are we here?” he asked. “What’s there to see?”

“I did say  _ most _ people.” With a smile and a nod, she led him off towards the back of the house. A room he’d barely remembered until recently - and those recent memories were  _ far _ from good. The billiards hall. There was light leaking from beneath the closed door and voices inside. Amelia floated through the wall and, with trepidation, he followed.

He knew the three men standing around the pool table by now. 

“Would ya’ take the shot already?” Samuel said, leaning on his cue.

“You can’t rush art, Sammy,” Franklin told him, repositioning his stance and aiming again. Deftly, he sank a green-striped ball into a corner pocket. “Speaking of art...” He straightened up, ran a hand through his dark hair. “I got a call from Henderson today.”

In the far corner of the room, spider legs up on the armrest of a wing-back velvet chair, Stephen took his cigarette out of his mouth to ask, “What’s he want?”

Franklin set his cue against the table and crossed to the seating area to retrieve his tumbler. “Me to start workin’ again,” he mumbled into the glass.

Samuel lined up his next shot. “He’s got something in mind?”

“Some new melodrama.” The heaviest brother shrugged. “Opening in December.”

Behind him Stephen clamped back down on the cigarette. “You thinkin’ about going?”

“I was.” With a sigh, Franklin took the seat opposite his brother. “Not that this hasn’t been great – the three of us together again, back in the house – but–”

“The show must go on, right?” Behind a ring of smoke, Stephen leaned his temple against the seatback. “I get it.”

“I wasn’t planning on leaving without helping get things set up here first,” Franklin put his glass on the side table, leaned on his elbows. “With the advance David’s offering, I think we could start interviewing nannies.”

Stephen raised his head. “Nannies?”

“Well, sure.” Franklin stroked his mustache. “What with Em gone and J.T.… where was he, last we heard, Sammy?”

“Paris.” Samuel took his shot, sank a solid blue ball. “But that was three weeks ago.”

“Right, doing the circuit over in Europe.” Franklin nodded, picked up his glass again. “Probably should look at tutors too.”

“Or I could make a call,” Samuel said, leaning back against the table, pool cue in hand. “See if we can’t get him a spot at Kents Hill.”

Stephen took a cigarette out of his mouth again. “Boarding school? At five?”

“That’s where  _ we _ were at his age,” Samuel said, raising an eyebrow. “Would that really be so bad?”

The eldest swung his long legs around, planted his feet on the floor. “Just not sure it’s necessary, that’s all.” He snatched his own scotch off the side table.

Samuel set his pool cue down on the table, crossed his arms over his chest. “I mean, it’s what’s next, right? My sabbaticals over at the end of the month. Don’t you have work waiting back in Boston? A brownstone that’s sittin’ empty?”

Eyes on his shoes, Stephen flicked ash down on the carpet.

Franklin folded his hands between his knees, leaning forward to speak softly. “We’ve got to start making plans,” he said gently. 

For a long moment, all three brothers were quiet, only the sound of ice melting and settling in tumblers keeping the room from complete silence. 

From their spot by the door, Casper whispered, “See? They came, but they’re going to leave again. Then it’ll be just my dad and me.”

“Shhhh.” Amelia put a finger to her lips, and then pointed back at the men.

Stephen had mumbled something and they’d missed it.

So, apparently, had his brothers.

“You what?” Franklin asked.

“I  _ can’t _ .”

“Can’t what?” Samuel prodded.

Stephen raised his head, eyes clear, jaw set. “I can’t leave ‘im.”

The other two exchanged a glance, and then both began speaking.

“It’s not like it’d be  _ forever _ .” - “We’d come back and visit.” - “Chicago's only a two day train ride away.” - “Telephone lines are goin’ up all over the country now.”

The eldest brother held a hand up. “Boys, ya’ don’t have ta’ convince me yer not heartless monsters. ‘S’not what I meant.” He took a quick drag. “Ya’ both got lives. I get it.”

“And you don’t?” Samuel countered.

“I got work,” Stephen said with a shrug. “But I can do it from here. Been doin’ that already anyway.”

Franklin fixed him with a careful stare. “You’re serious?”

Stephen pushed up from the chair, crossing the room, away from their eyes. Back to them, he flicked the eight ball with a long finger. Rolled it back. “Besides, _somebody’s_ gotta make sure the bills keep gettin’ paid, keep buildin’ up the equity on this place.” He contemplated the smoke in his hands, taking a slow pull. Blew it out of the side of his mouth. “My apartment ain’t walkin’ away anytime soon, anyway. And Casper-” 

“He’d be fine with a nanny,” Franklin argued. “We’d split the cost. S’not like we’re stretched for pennies. He can get the best tutors-”

“No.”

“And Sammy’s right - we went to boarding school, too-”

“ _ No _ .” He stubbed his cigarette out against the wood of the pool table, flicking it into an ashtray. “He’s stayin’ here. And I’ll stay with’m.”

“Stephen. It’s just-” Samuel rubbed the back of his neck. The pool table was between himself and his eldest brother, and he suddenly looked very grateful for the barrier. “It’s only- are you sure you wanna… You’re talkin’ about  _ raisin’ a kid _ .”

“I know what I said.”

“It’s only. Do you think you’re really-” He let out a sharp breath. “You sure you don’t want us to find a nanny?”

Stephen’s eyes narrowed. He pushed the 8 ball again, and it clunked against the border on his brother’s side. “You sayin’ I ain’t… what? Warm and fuzzy?”

“That’s not what I-”

“I know I ain’t. And I know I ain't no fuckin’ angel, neither. But I can take care of a kid. So you’d better watch your-”

“ _ Stephen _ ,” Franklin warned from the side. 

The tone worked, and the eldest rolled his eyes, backing off, moving to lean against the wall where he could watch them both. 

“You know that isn’t what he’s saying. We’ve all got work. But you’re talkin’ about taking on another job here when you don’t  _ have _ to.” 

Stephen swallowed, looking down at his shoes. 

“Em’s gone,” Franklin continued gently. “And J.T. is- well. You know. But Casper isn’t yours. And you’ll wear yourself thin if you take it all. It isn’t just  _ being here _ or hanging around. You’d need to worry about actually  _ taking care _ of him. Food. Playing. School. Bedtime. Mornings. Injuries. Sickness. Not blowing your top." He listed them all, ticking off fingers. 

Samuel nodded. “But if we just… got a nanny. A tutor. A… a good school.”

Casper watched them, breath held. Watched the words roll around in Stephen’s head. Watched him cross his arms and look up at his younger siblings. “I know I ain’t Star Caretaker of the Year. But I’ll figure it out. And I’ll balance it.” 

“It’s  _ too much _ ,” Franklin said again. 

“He’ll be  _ alone _ .” Stephen pushed off the wall, decision made. “You’ve got work. That’s fine. I can work from here and watch him, too. Just… for another year. One more. That’s it. Then we can talk about nannies or boarding school or sellin’ him off to the circus or whatever. But, boys… I can’t let him live another year alone.” 

Before he had time to react, Franklin had thrown an arm over his shoulders, jerking him down so they were cheek to cheek. “Well, I’ll be damned. Think he might be just warm and fuzzy enough, Sammy.”

Samuel pretended to wipe away a tear. “Gol- _ lee _ , Frank!  Forty-two-years old and already  _ so _ grown up.”

Scowling, ears red, Stephen tried to pull out of his brother’s grip unsuccessfully. “Get offa me, ya big galoot.”

In reply, Franklin held tighter, pressed an exaggerated, mustachioed kiss to the flushed cheek. “You call us, ok? If things get to be too much,” he rumbled, “You call us.”

Eyes downturned, frown faltering, Stephen nodded.

Casper nearly jumped to the ceiling when Amelia touched his shoulder. He turned away from the scene, where Samuel was scaling Stephen like a tree, digging in the taller man’s suit jacket to extract a pocket knife - _“we gotta mark this down!” -_ and Franklin was rolling a cigarette off to the side, chuckling - _“what day is it? October what?”_. Stephen, still flushed, took up his cue, mumbling _“ain’t we too old for this?”_ while Samuel ducked to crawl under the table. 

“He doesn’t.” Amelia said. 

Casper crossed his arms, a spark of righteous anger burning hot. “Knew it. I didn’t think he’d stay, anyway. He wouldn’t really. Probably left the morning after-”

“No. He stays,” said Amelia. “He doesn’t  _ call _ .” She watched him, sadly. “The man took on a world he didn’t have to take. And he put it on his own shoulders.” 

Stephen  tapped his cue against the top of the table. “We gonna play or are you gonna be a ninny all night?”

“Don’t you dare scratch this one out,” Samuel called up from beneath, putting the tip of the blade to the wood.

“He doesn’t call,” she said again. “And he took on enough to crush him.” 

Casper watched. Watched him wait  for Samuel to reappear , pouring a drink, lighting a smoke, knowing that his brothers would be gone and he’d stay behind. “Why?”

Amelia smiled. She reached out a hand. “We’ve got more to see, dear, and not a lot of time. Come along.” 

Casper looked back once more at the table. 

“Still think we’re too old for this.”

“ _ You _ might be. 42 is startin’ to show on ya!”

“Shaddup.”

Samuel gave his eldest brother back his knife, replacing it with a drink in his own hand. “That spot is for  _ important memories _ . An this is important, ain’t it?”

Franklin agreed with a salute of his glass. “Don’t want to forget this.”

Stephen didn’t move; staring at the knife in his hand, the gold filigree glinting  _ McFadden _ up at him. The next breath he took was shaky, and he took a long swig from his tumbler. When he lowered the glass, he opened his mouth but nothing came out, so he clamped it shut again. Nodded.

“D’aw, Sammy, yer gonna make ‘im cry,” Franklin said, grinning.

“ _ Shaddup, _ ” Stephen snapped, ears red.

Samuel clapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon. We gonna play, or you gonna be a ninny all night?”

Stephen dropped the knife into his pocket. “Sure. You’re the one losin’ this round anyway.”

“Still think you’re cheating!”

Amelia touched Casper’s shoulder and he jumped, turning to look up at her. 

“Casper?”

He turned back to the Uncles a moment, watching them rib one another while, just beneath the table, the scratches of the wood marked it was special. 

_ He stays _ , the echo of her voice ran round his head. 

_ He’ll leave _ , his own voice echoed back.  _ He has to.  _

“Casper,” she said again. 

He nodded and followed her out through the door. 

* * *

Harvey had the two pictures side by side. 

The first; four on the steps of the porch. 

The second; four on the steps of the porch. 

Equal. 

But different. 

And the key was the difference. And Dr. James Harvey was intent on finding the key. 

In his line of work, the ‘talk’ portion of ‘talk therapy’ was much less than half of what his job entailed. Because even when a patient was cooperative, they only ever said so much. There was always something they wouldn’t or  _ couldn’t _ say. So, as many in his profession did, he’d had to hone his skills at noticing other things - tone, tenor,  _ body language. _

And the body language in each of the two photographs was practically shouting to him. He let out a tiny, triumphant breath. “How did I not see it before?”

“See what, Doc?” Fatso was floating closer, hovering over his therapist’s left shoulder.

Harvey put a finger on the first picture. “Look at the way you’re all standing,” he said. “The only two who are touching at all are you and Casper, and it’s stiff, uncertain. Everyone else has their hands behind their backs - even Casper. Everyone posed, no one smiled. More like the photos folks are used to seeing from this time period.”

Kat leaned on the heel of her hand, gazing out over the rest of the collection. “Yeah, the rest of these aren’t like in my textbook at all.”

“Right, so we know more relaxed, less formal photography was possible.” Harvey nodded. “Which leads us here.” He tapped the second picture. “Look at it. You’re all standing in the same positions, but not the same pose.”

Stinkie, who’d slowly been drifting closer while the others spoke, settled on Harvey’s right. “What’re ya talkin’ about?”

“Well, just look at the hands for a start.” He pointed again. “Everyone is touching someone else.”

He was right.

The little boy had both hands clasped in one of his uncles’ hands, squeezing tight. 

And on each of their shoulders-

-long fingers curled into the wool of their overcoats.

“Hey…” Fatso said softly, dipping down to peer closer.

“And look how he’s standing,” Harvey said gently, bringing the two images closer again. “He looks half-a-head taller in the first one. Here, he stooped. To get closer.”

Stinkie exhaled. “Son of a bitch.”

“And something else stands out,” the therapist said, speaking softly but holding both of the ghosts’ attention with ease. “You said this was the day you left. But I’m looking around and I only see two sets of matched luggage.”

Kat was scooting closer now. “Wait, what?”

“What’re ya sayin’, Doc?” Stinkie asked like he already knew the answer.

“Well, I can only  _ infer _ , but it looks to me like-”

“He stayed.” When Fatso said it, it wasn’t a question.

“He stayed,” Harvey echoed.

* * *

On the way through the house, they passed another memory in the foyer. Amelia didn’t stop for it, charging on towards another hall. Casper paused. 

“Do you  _ have _ to go?” Casper clung to Franklin’s leg, looking up at him and his other Uncle, eyes red and watery. 

“‘Fraid so, short stuff.” Samuel kneeled. “But we’ll see you next holiday!” 

Casper rubbed his eyes, nodding. 

Franklin leaned closer, conspiratorially. “And listen,” he whispered. “Your Uncle Stephen gives you any trouble? You call me. Chicago’s not far, and I can always make the trip to thrash him for you.”

Stephen glowered, gaze dark. “Try and I’ll send you back toothless.” 

Franklin laughed and cuffed his eldest on the shoulder. Stephen stumbled back, rubbing his arm with a glare. 

Samuel squeezed the kid’s shoulder. “You’ll be good for Uncle Stephen, right? Won’t raise too much Hell?”

Casper wiped his nose and nodded. 

“And hey… do me a favor, kid?” Franklin kneeled down. “You might need to take care of him sometimes, alright? Remind him to actually eat something once in a while. Sleeping won't hurt, neither.”

Casper smiled a watery grin. He looked back up at Stephen, watching them carefully. Turned back. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

Stephen, behind them, scoffed. 

“I know you will.” Franklin pulled Casper in close and gave him a noisy kiss to the cheek, lifting the child while he stood. Samuel reached over and ruffled his hair. 

Casper’s little face was pressed into the collar of the green tweed suit. “Bye Uncle Franklin…” The sniffly voice said, muffled by wool. “Bye Uncle Sammy. Come back soon?”

“We’ll see you at Christmas,” Samuel promised over Franklin’s shoulder. 

The scene shifted. The door was open. The carriage outside, waiting to take the men to the train. 

Stephen on the porch with Casper beside him. 

Casper held fast to Stephen’s leg. “I miss them already…” Casper said. 

Stephen nodded. “Me too.” 

“Casper?” Amelia was waiting in the hall. “Come along. Don’t dawdle.” 

The ghost of the boy nodded, and left the two behind. 


	11. Alone and Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen learns what it is to be a guardian, Casper learns what it is to not be alone, memories become harder to deny, and a Doctor finally meets his patient.

The library was silent. The four entities occupying it stared down at the two pictures on the carpet. 

“Holy shit…” It was all Fatso managed to say. “Holy _shit_.”

“So. You left. But Stretch... he stayed. "Harvey took off his glasses, leaning back against the chair and rubbing his eyes. "At least this explains the dark spots you’ve been telling me about.”

“Because we was already gone.” Stinkie let out a long breath. “Whole year’s a lot’a time to miss.”

Kat, sitting cross legged on the carpet, balled her fists at her sides. She glared down at the pictures. At the man standing in both of them, looming over the small child. The sun must have been coming down on the other side of the house, because part of his long shadow hovered on the top of Casper’s head, devouring him. She clenched her teeth, pulling her legs up, pressing her chin into her knees until it hurt. 

“If it even _was_ a whole year,” said Fatso. “We don’t got nothin’ else here from afterwards. What if… what if we _never_ came back…”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Harvey. “We just don’t have anything else past that. And the only person we could possibly ask-”

“ _No_.” Stinkie didn’t give him time to finish, shaking his head. “No way. We ain’t askin’ Stretch shit.”

Fatso squirmed. “Yeah, but… if he knows what went on-”

Kat’s chin was bruising her knees. Her fists tightened, nails digging into her palm. The man in the picture watched her back cooly. 

“He’s not wrong,” Harvey told the youngest of the brothers. “Stretch isn’t ready for any sort of talking right now. So you might need other ways to figure out the year.”

Fatso nodded slowly. “Hey Kat?”

She snapped her head up, looking away from the pictures. 

“You found all the stuff that got us here,” he said. “Do you have _anything_ else to fill the gap. Stretch ain’t gonna be no use yet. And we weren’t there. So?”

The eyes from the picture watched her. 

Watched her look between Fatso and Stinkie. 

Watched her open her mouth and close it. 

Watched the anger bubble. 

“No,” she said, voice dark. “Nothing.”

Stinkie moved forward. “Are you sure? Anything would-”

“ _No_ ,” she said again, getting up. “There isn’t.”

She turned away, marching towards the desk, trying to get as far away from the eyes of the picture as she could. They followed her anyway. 

* * *

It was all so stupid. 

It was all she could think of as she sat on the floor, back to the desk, hiding from the rest of the people in the library. She could hear them whispering in their huddle, but she didn’t care. She had every right to her drama. 

And the embarrassment, the anger, the awful twisting in her stomach was better than those words that kept repeating over and over in her head. 

_He stayed_

_He stayed_

_He stayed_

She hunched over and pressed her face against her knees. 

When her dad finally made his way over, she ignored him. A little hard to do when he was sliding down the desk, sitting on the floor next to her, but she was well-practiced in the art of _teenagering_.

“Honey-”

“I know what you’re going to say,” she mumbled. 

She heard him breathe in. “Alright. You want to enlighten me, then?”

She curled her arms around her head. “You’re gonna say,” she said, “that I need to get over it, and that there’s a lot going on, and that it’s not about _me_.”

“Not what I was going to say at all.”

She turned her head to the side, peering at him through her curtain of hair. 

Her father shifted closer until their shoulders touched. “I know this isn’t easy. Knowing your friend is somewhere else.”

Her eyes began to sting and she nodded mutely. 

“And I know it’s even harder,” he said, letting out a long breath, “to know that someone you protected him from was there when you couldn’t be.” 

Kat sniffled, turning her head to wipe her eyes on her jeans, curling her legs up tighter. “It’s not fair.” Her voice was hoarse, and it hurt to speak, but she did it anyway. The words hurt more to keep. “You _saw_ how he is with Casper. All the time. And… and he _can’t_ have been there alone with him.”

“I get it, Kat.”

“He doesn’t get to just _have_ a history with him.”

Harvey reached out, hand splayed against her back. “We’ll never get to the bottom of this, never get the full story - which is seeming more and more complicated by the minute - if we don’t keep digging. And to do that, we need your help, bucket.”

“Maybe he doesn’t deserve my help.”

“Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t, but you’re kind of biting your nose to spite your face here.” She glared at him over her knees and he continued. “The goal is to get Casper back. Which we can’t do if we don’t put this puzzle together. All of it. Not just the parts we like.”

“I _know_.” She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s just…” He waited patiently for her to form her thoughts. She closed her eyes, thinking of the looming man and his devouring shadow. “It’s just not fair.” She opened her eyes again, looking up at her father and the ghosts watching them just beyond. “I… I promised-”

“Promised what, sweetheart?”

“I promised his dad I’d help.”

“His… dad?” 

“Yeah, I mean…” She picked at the threads in the hole in her jeans. “ _That’s_ who Casper was remembering. Or trying to. Before. And remembering made him _so_ happy. So even after he burnt _everything we had_ , that’s why I found more. ‘Cause I promised. I promised. Casper deserves to remember his dad. And his dad deserves to be remembered.”

“Well…” Harvey said slowly, craning his neck to check on the still-remaining ghosts. They were going through the photos again, looking more and more lost. “We can’t do any of that if we don’t keep working. So for now, helping _him_ means helping _them_ too.”

She swept her hair back, let out a long breath. “Fine. _Fine_.” With a huff, she got to her feet. “The boxes were in the attic,” she called across the room. “We should start there.”

Fatso and Stinkie looked up as she strode past them towards the door. They both turned to Harvey, who waved them off. “Go on. One of us should stay here with Casper.”

Without a second’s hesitation they took off straight through the ceiling.

James stood, hands on his hips, staring out over the collection, the still-unopened crate. “So,” he said, turning to the little glowing orb on the ottoman. “What say you and I go take a walk?” He tucked the orb into the pocket of his sweater, and strode off in the opposite direction his daughter had gone.

* * *

He trailed through the halls of Whipstaff, drifting aimlessly. He could hear Kat somewhere far off, her feet tracking back and forth across the floor of the attic. 

The orb in Harvey’s hand was cool, and the tendrils of blue and white glowing air that pulsed from it lapped his fingers. 

“Gotta tell you, Casper,” said the doctor, starting his way up the steps in the foyer, “if you wanted to jump start the house into some sort of crazy revelation, I’m sure there might have been better ways.” 

The orb didn’t answer. He sighed. 

He heard Fatso say something, muffled through floors and walls. Stinkie’s more pitched voice answered. An argument, maybe? A negotiation? He couldn’t be sure. And he wasn’t going to find out. “We’ve got bigger fish,” he said to the orb. 

The orb didn’t answer. 

Harvey wandered down the halls, ducking his head into the rooms, but finding nothing. The fear of moving through a haunted house he’d once had on his first days in Whipstaff had mostly deteriorated. But the threat of a scare or two was always in the back of his mind. But the garden variety scare wasn’t what he was worried about. 

“I know you probably don’t want to hear about your Uncle Stretch. But I don’t have much of a choice.” The little orb, despite its silence, was useful in its own ways. Like giving him someone to work out his thoughts with. Usually that was between himself and a notebook and a hopeful (but rarely achieved) silent hour or two. Now, he looked down at the Bookmark of his daughter's best friend, fingers curling carefully through the mist rolling off like fog on the water. 

“He’s been getting worse,” Harvey explained to the orb, peering into one of the little rooms upstairs that Kat sometimes used for homework and reading. Nothing. “And I know you and Kat might have told me that it was obvious… it’s just _not_ . And this isn’t me defending him either. Because ever since I’ve been here, Stretch has figured out how to encompass every single synonym for _bastard_. But he’s always been consistent about it.” 

The orb said nothing. 

Harvey checked three more rooms without any luck. 

“He was consistent,” he continued, padding along the halls. “And then, suddenly, he wasn’t. And when you’ve worked in my field long enough… you learn to notice that.”

Another empty room. 

Upstairs, Fatso and Stinkie were talking quickly. His daughter was mostly silent. They got louder for a moment just as he passed by the attic door, and he could hear them through it just barely; 

_I found an old record’a mine! Kat ya’ gotta see this. I sent this to Cas-_

_Oh shit. I think I sat through your show once._

_You did! Found the ticket!_

Harvey paused a moment. There was a warmth to the words. A remembering that felt like a blanket and a mug of tea, and he was drawn to it. 

Growth, he realized a moment later. 

It was Growth. 

In his hands the orb pulsed. “They’re trying,” he explained. With a shake of his head, he began to walk away from the voices and the warmth and the growth. “But we’re not looking for them.”

Another pulse in his hands. 

“I know. But we have to. Like I said. Something wasn’t right.” He took a turn down an adjacent hallway. “How he treated you was never alright. I’ll never have a want or a need to excuse it. It was abuse. And the fact that you’ve had to endure it for so long makes your choices barely a drop in the bucket of what I would have done to get away if I’d been you. I don’t blame it. But right now? Something about how he acted… these last few days were outliers, and that’s not something I can ignore, either.”

Two more empty rooms. 

He walked towards the trio’s room next, not expecting much, but hoping nonetheless. “Kat told me his reaction to the pictures was Stretch being Stretch. But from a psychological perspective, at least, it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. Something about those pictures brought up a trauma. And again, in the library - he never saw what we were holding, Casper. Never looked. But he remembered. More than the others could. And he remembered vividly. Violently. And he hurt.”

He paused in the hall. The trio’s room was just ahead, but his own words stopped him. 

“He hurt,” he said again, words drifting off the walls. “Badly.”

The orb beat softly; a fluttering heartbeat in his hands. 

“He hurt. And he spoke,” Harvey said, slowly. “ _He_ spoke, but he didn’t mean to speak.” He swallowed. “I told them, a while back, that memories were like a dam. The more you pile up, the more pressure there is. The more you release them, the better you are. But the way he was…” He frowned, thumbs tracking through the fog. “He’s put a lot behind that dam of his. Which makes me think that he’s got a lot he’s hiding.”

The orb shuddered. Harvey curled his hands around it. 

“I think,” he said, a revelation washing over him like rain, “I think your other uncles forgot. What I saw today, in that library… that was remembering. But your Uncle Stretch?” He closed his eyes, remembering the snarling, the gasping, the voice that burst free. The fear and the anxiety that aligned too well with paranoia and guilt and-

-and _knowing_.

“I don’t think he ever really forgot,” Harvey said, blood rushing in his ears. “I think he hid and buried and locked up. What I saw wasn’t remembering. I think he’s running.”

Harvey had patients who’d done that in the past. Who buried and hid and locked and threw the key so far away that they’d never have hope of finding it again. 

Patients who’d experienced trauma and tragedies, and smoothed a false reality over like a bandaid. 

The bandage was peeling away, now. 

Harvey finally opened the Trio’s door. Like he expected, it was empty. 

“There has to be a better way to do this,” he said, leaning on the wall outside the door. “Hunting ghosts isn’t really what I’m paid here to do.” 

He looked down at the orb. Nothing. 

Usually, the trio found him. It was by chance that he found them. 

Ghosts were notoriously good at not being found when they didn’t want to be, and from the way Stretch had bolted, there was no desire for anyone to find him. 

Not even himself. 

“I need to work smarter about this…” He told the orb. “If your Uncle Stretch was going to go anywhere… where would it be? If he was remembering him, and _you_ , where would he go.”

Another pulse. 

Harvey watched the pulse in his hands. Blueish-white light flickered on his hands with each little heartbeat. 

He sucked in a breath, head snapping up. 

_Light_. 

The idea struck him fast, and he grinned. “Caper. You’re brilliant.” 

The orb pulsed again. 

Harvey walked down the halls fast now, not bothering with the doors. His eyes stayed on the sconces, and they’d stay there until finally, _finally_ , he saw one of them flicker. 

He paused, holding his breath. 

Like a map, the one behind it flickered as well. And the one beyond that stammered and cycled and pulsed. 

Harvey lifted his chin. “ _Found you_ ,” he said. Holding tighter to the imprint of the boy in his hand, the therapist began to follow the lights into the flickering hall. “C’mon, Casper. Let’s go find your Uncle.” 

* * *

Casper was doing his absolute best to ignore the feelings of _familiar_ that had become near overwhelming for the past few moments. So he did his best to focus, instead. Focus on what he knew right then and there. 

He knew his father would be returning. 

He knew that he had a choice to make. 

And he knew that, at that very moment, someone was cursing loud enough to rattle the walls in the house. 

Amelia snorted, guiding him down a hall he was becoming more and more accustomed to seeing. 

Stephen was in his office from halfway down the hall, barking orders in colorful language behind the closed door. Casper winced, “Jeez… guess he’s always been a loudmouth.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow.

“If this is real,” he quickly amended.

“Oh yes, your Uncle very much enjoyed being _heard_ ,” his guide said, smirking. She phased through the wall into the office and the ghost followed.

The spider of a man was seated on his desk, feet propped on the desk chair, phone receiver clutched tight. “I’m tellin’ ya, Sal, you pussyfoot around on this and the window’s gonna close - it _has_ ta be today. Don’t tell me you can’t-'' He paused, straightening up as something beyond his window caught his eye. 

He kicked the chair and it rolled aside just as he hopped down to the floor. On the other end of the line, someone was talking, but he wasn’t listening. He stood at the window, frowning.

“What’s he looking at?” Casper asked.

“If I recall,” Amelia said, taking a few steps back from the desk. “He’s got a perfect view of the backyard from here.”

Casper watched her moving away, concern furrowing his brow. “Why are you-?”

The voice of his uncle cut him off. Cut off the person on the phone, too. “Shaddup for a sec, Sal. Kid’s about ta pull some bullshit.” With his free hand, he undid the latch and hoisted up the sash. Damp spring air filled the room as he leaned his head out the open window. “I SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING, CASPER!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “CUT IT OUT BEFORE I COME DOWN THERE!”

The ghost cringed, flew back to where Amelia was standing with her fingers in her ears. “What the heck?” he hissed.

And then, from down below, he heard his own voice.

“I’M NOT DOING ANYTHING!”

He gaped, first at the window, and then at the woman, who was smirking again.

“YOU TRACK THAT MUD IN THE HOUSE AND IT’S STRAIGHT TO THE ZOO WITH THE OTHER ANIMALS!”

There was a groan loud enough to reach the third story window, punctuated with a doubly loud, “FINE!”

Stephen ducked back inside, shut the window, and brought the phone receiver back up to his ear. “Anyway, Sal, where was I?”

Ears still ringing, the ghost stared at the window, his Uncle, the woman, unable to decide what he was more horrified at. “What the heck was _that?”_

“That,” Amelia said, smile firmly in place, “was the two of you establishing a new way of communicating.”

“ _What?_ ”

She raised a hand and the current memory faded, replaced by another. Stephen was now seated at his desk, a ledger in front of him and a fountain pen in hand. The sky outside the window (which was open) was a perfect, cloudless blue. 

This uncle tapped the pentip to his tongue, brought it back to the page-

“UNCLE STEPHEN!”

The ghost cringed away again. “Is that-?”

The man at the desk skidded the pen across the page, flinching. “For the love of-” He wheeled the chair closer to the open window. “WHAT?”

“I THINK I SAW A WHALE!”

“IS IT STILL THERE?”

“NO.”

“THEN DON’T BOTHER ME!” The man pushed his chair back to the desk, surveyed the jagged line he’d accidentally scrawled across the ledger. “Jesus Christ…”

Casper glared up at Amelia. “Are you trying to tell me that- that _this_ was a _thing?”_

“Not telling. Showing. Remember?” she answered, hands back down by her sides at last. “I’ve got plenty more - would you like to see?”

“It _can’t_ be real,” he insisted as the two of them moved back into the hall. “There’s no _way_ . He can’t- _I_ can’t-”

“Why not?” she asked.

“He’d _never_ let me get away with-”

“But _he_ was the one who started it,” she said. “He may have been born in Friendship, but he was a _Boston_ man, through and through.”

“What’s _that_ mean?”

“That he was a loudmouth. And that it was contagious.”

The ghost almost laughed, but caught himself.

The memory of his uncle appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “CAS- _PER!_ ”

From the boy’s room came a loud, “WHAT?”

“DINNER!”

“I’M BUSY!”

“YER FIVE! WHAT’RE YA DOIN’, REORGANIZIN’ YER STOCK PORTFOLIO? GET DOWN HERE!”

“FIIIIIIIINE!”

Ms. Danvers emerged from the kitchen. “For heaven’s sake, Stephen! The two of you are going to wake the dead! Just climb the stairs!”

But the little boy had emerged from his room already.

“Don’t have to,” Stephen grinned at the housekeeper, who merely rolled her eyes at him and walked away.

Amelia chuckled to herself. “Contagious.”

* * *

“While there were certainly fits and starts, growing pains, the two of you started to figure out a rhythm,” Amelia said. They were in the second floor hall again, with pink dawn light filling the space. “Children thrive on routine, predictability, and you were no different.”

The door to Casper’s room opened and the five-year-old bounded out in what must have been a union suit meant for warmer weather - sleeveless and legs hemmed above his knees. His feet were bare.

“That internal alarm of yours didn’t shift just because Franklin and Samuel weren’t there to get up with you.” She moved to follow the memory, hands clasped behind her back. “So that left-”

“UNCLE STEPHEN GET UP!”

The ghost still cringed at the sound of his own raised voice. “There’s _no_ way this is real - he’d _never_ put up with it!”

“Still, it’s got to be satisfying to watch, right?” Amelia was grinning as she peered into his uncle’s bedroom.

In the dark room, they could just make out the shadow of a man trying desperately to ignore his wake-up call. The shadow of the boy went straight to the window, tugging back the curtains and spilling a stripe of light across the bed. The figure under the covers curled more tightly in on himself just in time for the boy to leap on top of him.

“GET UP! GET UP!” Little hands smacked what was probably his uncle’s shoulders (though under the blankets, it was really anyone’s guess). “Come on! We’re wastin’ daylight!”

From beneath the pillow there was a snort of laughter and the shape moved, rolling the boy onto the mattress. At last, Stephen emerged, propping himself up on his elbows. “Where’d ya hear _that_ one?”

“You say it on the phone sometimes,” the boy explained. “It means we should get a move on, right?”

“Yeah, it does.” Stephen scrubbed his face with his hands. “But when _I_ say it, it’s ‘cause there’s a boatload’a scratch on the line. That ain’t the case here.”

Casper considered that for a moment, staring up at his uncle from where he lay. “Well...there’s a boatload’a _fun_ on the line! So ya gotta get up!”

Stephen smirked. “Kid knows how ta craft an argument,” he muttered to himself. With a grunt, he pushed himself up to sit. “All right, bulbhead, you win.” 

With a _whoop_ the boy sprang from the mattress. “What’re we gonna do today?”

His uncle swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretched until something popped and then stood. He was dressed for warmer weather as well, with only the bottoms of his pajamas on over a sleeveless union suit. “Well _I’ve_ got a call at ten-thirty which’ll probably run clear through lunch,” he said, yawning as he padded towards the bathroom. “But after that? I dunno, maybe we could scrounge up somethin’ fun ta do.”

Casper hovered around the man like a moth to a candle as he walked. “Can we go down to the beach?”

Stephen nearly tripped over the boy and he reached out, put a hand on the blonde head, and steered him to one side. “You know how I feel about sand.”

“But there was _lightning_ last night!” Casper tucked into the little bathroom after his uncle. “There might be fuh...fuh…” He paused, snapping his fingers as he struggled with the word. “Fulgurite!”

“Ain’t _that_ a ten dollar word.” Stephen turned the tap on the sink and let the water start flowing.

“Uncle Sammy told me last summer,” Casper explained. He squeezed around the man and clambered up onto the wide-mouthed sink. “Lightning hits the sand and melts it into glass! We dinnin’t find any last year, but that was some _big_ lightning last night. I bet we find some this time!”

Stephen nodded along as the boy spoke, only half-listening as he laid out items beside the sink. A small ceramic cup. A wood-handle brush. A short, wide tin. A leather pouch that, when unclasped and opened, held a pair of straight razors. A glass bottle. “I still gotta get sand in my shoes, though, right?”

The boy picked up the cup and the brush, leaning to dip the bristles under the running water. “You could always take your shoes _off_.” He dunked the wet brush in the open tin and then stuck it in the cup, stirring.

“We got a comedian over here.” Stephen set the razors, still closed, on the counter and picked up the leather pouch, which, when unfurled, was about the length of his forearm. Using a metal ring attached to one end, he hung it from a hook next to the mirror. “I dunno kid, the beach ain’t really my scene.” He picked up one of the razors, snapped it open and began running the blade back and forth against the leather.

“Please?” The cup in Casper’s hand was full of white froth and he set it down.

His uncle held the razor up at eye level, running his thumb carefully over the blade. “We’ll see. Maybe if this call goes well and I’m in an extra good mood.” He glanced down at the cup. “Hey, you didn’t get it everywhere this time.”

“‘Cause I’ve been practicing!”

“And ‘cause yer tryin’ ta butter me up so I’ll take ya to the beach.”

“That too.”

Stephen laid the razor down on the opposite side of the sink from where his nephew sat and picked up the cup. 

Casper reached across the sink, taking the glass bottle of aftershave in hand, giving it a sniff. He shook a few drops into his hand curiously. The ghost from the door could smell alcohol and patchouli and leather as the child experimentally patted it over his face. “How come you gotta shave everyday?”

“‘Cause otherwise Uncle Stephen’d look like a hobo.”

The boy giggled. “You could grow a mustache, like Uncle Franklin. Or a whole big beard!”

His uncle turned, shaving cream now looking distinctly beard-like. “Ya really think this’d be a good look?”

Casper snorted and shook his head. “Nah.”

“S’what I thought.” He set the cup and brush down, picked up the razor. “Don’t bump me now, got it?”

The boy took one big scoot back. He glanced around the little room briefly, then let his gaze fall back on his uncle. With his arms bare, something was visible on his shoulder. “Hey, what _is_ that?”

Stephen flicked shaving cream into the sink and rinsed the blade. “What’s what?”

“There.” Casper poked the man’s shoulder.

“Hmm?” The man craned his neck, peered down at where the boy had pointed. “Oh. Heh. Just somethin’ stupid from when I was younger.”

“It looks like a triangle that’s staring at me.” 

Stephen chuckled. “S’the Eye of Providence - at sixteen, I thought it looked, I dunno, neat? Word of advice, kid. Don’t ever do nothin’ permanent at sixteen.”

Casper was still staring at it, eyes wide. “You mean it doesn’t wash off?”

“Not in the last twenty-six years.”

“Gol- _lee_.”

Stephen turned back to the mirror, carefully shaving another patch, and the boy went back to chatting about other reasons they should _totally definitely go to the beach_ as the memory faded away.

The ghost stared at the empty bathroom. “They- we did that every day?”

“With minor variations in conversation,” Amelia said. “If it was real, well, it was almost… nice, wouldn’t you say?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“There were other routines as well.” She beckoned him from the room. “I thought we could take a look at a few of those next.”

* * *

They were in Stephen’s office again, and the first thing that stood out was a new piece of furniture - a tiny desk with an attached chair now sat in the corner, under the room’s only other window. And, in the tiny desk, was the boy whose feet just barely touched the floor. A box of crayons sat open and his tongue was poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on the paper in front of him.

Stephen had the newspaper spread out in front of him and was marking it with his pen. Beside him on the desk, the telephone rang. He snatched it up. “Yeah?” The operator on the other end said something that made him smile. “Yeah put him through.” He held the receiver to his chest and called across the room. “Guess who’s on the horn?”

Casper abandoned his crayons and sprang from his seat, galloping to his uncle’s side. He clambered into the man’s lap and grabbed for the phone. 

“Hang tight, short stuff, wait yer turn.” Stephen put the receiver back to his ear. “Hey! It ain’t Tuesday, we weren’t expect- ‘course he’s here.” With a roll of his eyes, he handed the receiver to the boy. “Big surprise, he wants ta talk to you.”

Practically vibrating with excitement, Casper took the phone. “Hello? Hiya, Uncle Franklin! How come you’re callin’ today instead of tomorrow? No way! What line are you- gee whiz! Will you send me a picture of the engine? Thank you!” Beaming, he curled further into Stephen’s lap. “Wow! Really?” A pause, a giggle. “No, I won’t tell him-”

Long fingers snapped the phone away despite the boy’s _hey, we weren’t done!_ “Won’t tell me _what_ , Franklin? Well forgive me if I don’t particularly care for yer brand of surprises.” A pause, a frown. “You and I have very different ideas about what’s _fun_ . I am _not!_ ” Ears red, he dropped the receiver back into Casper’s waiting hands.

“Yeah, I’m working on him,” the boy said into the phone, expression serious. Another giggle. “Yeah he is.”

Above him, Stephen huffed.

“When do you think it’ll get here? Okay, I’ll watch the mail. Miss you _more_ . Love _you_ **_more_ ** . Nuh-uh, I love _you_ more! Do too! Do too a million!”

“Every minute’a this is costin’ me money, ya know,” Stephen grumbled.

Casper glanced up, grinning. “Yeah he just did. Okay. Yeah I’ll talk to you next Tuesday. Love _you_ more infinity! I win!” He offered the phone back to his uncle.

“I’ll _also_ be watchin’ the mail, just in case you thought you were gonna get away with somethin’ here,” Stephen said into the phone. His ears flushed again. “Screw you, asshole.” He slammed the phone into its cradle, exhaling sharply.

Casper leaned back against Stephen’s chest. “He loves you infinity too, you know.”

Cheeks darkening to match his ears, the tall man nodded. “Yeah I know.”

“His surprise is a good one.”

“They always are, aren’t they?”

“Can we call Uncle Sammy?”

“He calls on Fridays. And _he_ knows how ta stick to a schedule.”

Casper nodded, gazed out over the desk. “How come I can’t use a pen?”

“‘Cause you’ll get ink everywhere.”

“I might not.”

“If I go over there right now, how much crayon am I gonna find on your desktop?”

“Some?”

Stephen raised an eyebrow.

“A lot.”

“When you can keep the crayon _on_ the paper, then we’ll talk about when you get your own pen.” He slipped his hands under the boy’s arms and set him back down on the floor. “Now lemme finish what I was doin’ and maybe we can get you outside for a little while before dinner.”

“Okay!”

Amelia watched the boy skip back to his desk. “It was an album.”

“Huh?” the ghost beside her said.

“Franklin was sending a new album,” she said. “So you could hear him even when he wasn’t here. You played it so often you wore it down. Stephen was thrilled, of course.”

Casper hovered over his own shoulder, watching as the memory picked up a crayon and worked to keep it on the paper as he drew.

* * *

 _“This is almost boring,”_ the voice sighed. _“How many times we gotta do this before you fuckin’_ ** _get_** _it?”_

Stretch’s chest was tight, breathing in sharp gasps. He’d managed to stagger from the pool room and the torrent of pain he’d found there, only to discover that the whole manor was saturated in it. Like a house on fire, each door he drew near burned him with voices, colors, smells, sensations. Even as he recoiled, the hurt licked at him, invisible flames searing, singing, stinging. 

**_C’mon! We’re wastin’ daylight here!_ **

**_Do too! Do too a million!_ **

**_Not even when you wanna sell me to the circus?_ **

**_I made this for you!_ **

Stretch doubled over again, braced himself against the wall with a hand. “Would you fuckin’ _stop_ this already?” he rasped.

_“I’m barely doing anything.”_

“Like hell yer not.”

A sigh again, between his ears. _“The stuff you’re hearin’, that’s comin’ through the cracks I got through, yeah. But everythin’ else? I ain’t doin’ any of it. S’all you. S’all us.”_

Stretch slid to the floor, shoulder pressed to the wall, struggling to breathe. “Bullshit.”

 _“I don’t_ hafta _make you feel any’a this, Stretch. You_ already _feel it. You just buried it all for so long, you don’t recognize that all this pain is_ yours _.”_

“It… it’s _not_.”

 _“It_ **_is._ ** _”_

“Can’t be.”

_“Ghosts are born outta pain, dipshit. Ya think ya just got lucky? Get to spend eternity kickin’ the kid around just ‘cause?”_

“Shut up.”

 _“_ _No!_ _”_ the voice thundered and he curled away only there was nowhere to go. _“You gotta get yer head outta yer ass pronto, or we’re gonna lose the kid all over again!”_

**_I can’t leave ‘im._ **

**_I don’t hate you._ **

**_Couldn’t._ **

**_Not ever._ **

“I don’t-”

 _“Don’t even fuckin’_ think _about sayin’ that,”_ the voice spat. His chest tightened, stomach twisted. _“If we didn’t care, we wouldn’t fuckin’_ feel _like this.”_ Stretch clutched at his head as it throbbed. _“_ _We wouldn’t have felt like this since the_ beginning _. Since we first got here as ghosts. And you fuckin’ know it.”_

_“I didn’t-”_

_“You did,” the voice hissed. The minute you arrived here, dead an’ gone, you fuckin’ felt it. Looked at that dead kid, an’ felt hurt enough to bury me deep and keep burying.”_

There was another beat of pain then. Familiar and vicious. A bright memory burst behind Stretch’s eyes;

He’d been alive, and then he hadn’t. He didn’t remember the before, then. Just knew that he knew. The house. The brothers. The little ghost who’d floated in front of him on the spiral floor of the foyer, looking up at him desperately. 

Knew the voice, when it had asked; **_Do I know you? Are you here to help me? I don’t know who I am… and I’ve been so alone._**

And he’d known the anger. Known the fury. Known, right then and there, that he hated, hated, hated more than anything he’d ever hated before. It had spread and consumed. 

_“You were so furious,” the voice hissed. “So furious. So angry. So hurt-”_

“No,” said Stretch, closing his eyes.

_“Yes. Hurt enough to hurt back. Angry enough to burn.”_

“Stop it!” He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, but in the darkness were blue eyes, desperate and afraid and hurt. 

_“You knew him. You didn’t know why. But you knew._ ”

 **_I’m your Uncle_ ** , he heard his own voice say deep in the back of his head, growling. More figures. More anger. **_I’m your Uncle. An’ you’re the unlucky brat who's gonna have a lot of work ta’ do_ ** **.**

_“You were there with the kid alone for years, until your brothers arrived, one by one. Both of them pulled to the house by the gravity of your fury. By a promise. Franklin first. Then Samuel. An’ you knew them, too. Your brothers didn’t know shit, but you did. You knew enough. Somehow, you knew. Who he was. Who they were. You just didn’t know why.”_

“Anyone would’a known,” he snarled. “They would’ve remembered eventually.”

 _“They wouldn’t,”_ said his voice back. _“An’ they didn’t hate until you did. You always were the fearless leader, an’ they followed your every move. Feels like hell when they don’t, doesn’t it? When they break away. They’re startin’ ta’ wonder why they ever hated the kid in the first place right now. Just because you_ _were already rulin’ the roost when they_ _showed up an’ were hurt enough to spread it like a fuckin’ virus.”_

Another beat of the same, familiar burning flew over him, and Stretch breathed out fast to keep from toppling. 

“He’ll be back,” he choked. “He’ll be back, an’ if he’s not-”

_“Don’t finish that sentence.”_

Stretch’s teeth gritted. “If that brat wants to leave-”

 _“_ _You’re not gettin’ this!_ _We lost the kid once already._ _And it broke us. It fucking_ broke _us. If we lost him again…”_

The sconce on the wall shattered with a _pop!_

Broken glass fluttered down over him unnoticed. 

“I don’t-” 

_“You say you don’t care. But the reality of it says otherwise. Because this door won’t close. These memories won’t leave. Could we handle another breaking, Stretch? Another burning? Or would we drown in the ashes?”_

Behind the fresh wave of sounds and colors and voices and feelings, he barely heard the footsteps from down the hall. 

But he heard the voice. 

“Stretch?”

His eyes flew open, and he jerked away from the wall, floating in the air. His chest heaved, breath doing its best to find a rhythm. His wide eyes looked down the hallway, finding the face of his therapist. 

“Stretch…?” 

The ghost swallowed, eyes drifting from Harvey to the little orb in his hand. 

There was another feeling; a desperate hurt, a need, a want, a fear, and his hands flew to his chest, as if he could tether it down. 

Harvey stepped into the room, looking him up and down. His gaze wasn’t so different as the ones he used during their sessions. Seeking. He lifted his chin. “Ah,” he said. “You’re not alone right now. Are you.”

 _“Oh,”_ said the voice in Stretch’s head. _“He’s good.”_

* * *

Casper saw himself seemingly before Amelia did, and she stopped her walk towards the other end of the house, past the foyer steps, when he grabbed her arm.

“Casper?”

He pointed down. 

She looked, leaning on the third story railing to gaze down at the spiraled floor.

In the moonlight, the figure glowed white, moving slowly from room to room. 

“Ah,” she nodded. “The Ghost of Whipstaff is back.”

“What happened?”

“Bad dream again,” she said. “C’mon.”

“Wait.” He tugged at her arm again, watching the little child move from the parlor to the library before leaving the room almost right away to wander back out quietly, towards the kitchens. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“Same thing it always does. He’ll wander until he finally goes back to bed just before dawn. Or he’ll be caught by someone.”

“Which one is it this time?”

Amelia smiled, tilting her chin up to gesture down the hallway they’d just come from. “It would be his first time finding you. First time dealing with nightmares, too.” 

Casper went to ask what she meant when a voice from behind had him whirling around. “What the hell?” Stephen was moving down the hallway. He was in a robe and pajamas, cutting a less threatening figure with his hair mussed and his socked feet on the carpet. He stopped right beside the ghosts, leaning on the railing, mirroring Amelia. The little ghost was stuck between them. He stared up at the man beside him, owlish eyes blinking. 

“ _Casper_ ,” Stephen hissed. 

The ghost beside him nudged quickly closer to Amelia’s side. 

The boy on the floor below looked up. He rubbed his eyes.

“Casper?” he whispered.

The boy blinked up. 

Stephen frowned. “The hell you doing? S’one in the _mornin’_.”

“You weren’t in your room,” Amelia explained. “He’d been working, and he went to check. And he wasn’t sure where you were.”

The boy below was slowly climbing the stairs. “I couldn’t sleep.” Casper’s voice was barely a rasp. 

“So you decide to scare the hell out’a me instead?”

“Sorry, Uncle Stephen.”

Stephen stepped to the side, giving the boy room to step up beside him. “What are you even doin’ up, kid?” 

“I had a bad dream.” Casper got to the landing, teetering on exhausted legs slowly towards his room, his Uncle behind him. 

“So ya’ decide to wander around past midnight instead?”

Casper shrugged. 

The ghosts followed behind. 

The house was darker in the hallways without the larger windows feeding in light, but what windows there were cast long slashes of moonlight across the carpets. 

It didn’t take them long to get to the room. Stephen turned on a lamp on the bedside table while Casper clambered up into the bed, shifting under the covers. 

“Nell told me you do this,” said Stephen. He picked a tin train off the floor, setting it onto the dresser. “Get up. Wander.”

Casper nodded. 

“Cause of some dreams?”

Another nod. 

“So,” said Stephen. “What’s the dream?”

Silence. 

Stephen sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Listen, short stuff. I can’t dance or sing like your Uncle Franklin. And I ain’t much good at gardening. But I’m good at _business_. And in my line of work, if ya’ wanna get somethin’ done, ya’ lay it all out. Can’t get nothin’ done or fixed unless the numbers are in front of ya’. So. Lay it all out.”

The boy in the bed swallowed. Rubbed his eyes. 

“Before you came, my dream used to be that I was just alone.” 

The first words were soft, the ghost watching barely heard it. He drifted closer, brows pinched. 

“But then you came, and the dream changed.”

Stephen lifted his chin. “How?”

“I’m alone,” the boy in the bed said again. “But not in the same way.”

Stephen tilted his head, squinting. 

The boy sniffled. “I’m alone, except Uncle Franklin is there. And Uncle Sammy.” He paused to pick at a loose thread on the quilt. His hands were shaking. “And you.”

“Me?”

Casper nodded. 

“Alright,” said Stephen. “What am I doin’.”

Casper balled his fists on the quilt. “You hate me.”

The room fell silent. 

Amelia came up beside Casper. He waited for her to make a comment, but she didn’t.

“You hate me…” the boy continued. “And I’m _alone_ even when I’m not, because you don’t care.”

“Cas’, you know-”

“And Uncle Franklin and Uncle Sammy hate me, too.” He focused hard on his hands, eyes misted. “I’m never allowed to go out or do anything. We never play anymore. I just… work. And I’m _scared_ and sad all the time.” The little boy wiped his eyes quickly, wriggling to sit up against the pillows. “I have to do everything on my own. No one helps me anymore. There’s just yelling and screaming. And jokes, but none of them are funny. They just _hurt_ . Everything _hurts_. And no one wants me.” 

Beside Amelia, Casper’s own fists were tight by his sides.

“This sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

He closed his eyes, but in the darkness, the words were all he could hear. Over and over;

_I’m alone._

_But you’re there._

_And you hate me_. 

“This isn’t real,” he whispered. “ _This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real_ …” 

“Not yet, at least,” she said, moving over towards the little daybed that he’d claimed as his own after Kat had moved in. It didn’t dip beneath her weight. Casper didn’t follow, hovering by the bedframe, numb. “But the dreams would be one day, in a way.” She sighed, shaking her head. “I think you knew. I’m not sure, I never am. But I think your dreams- I think you knew what was ahead.”

The man on the edge of the bed swallowed. Cleared his throat. Watched the boy with alert, horrified eyes. Barely above a whisper, he muttered, “Jesus Christ.” Then he was moving, spider limbs lifting him up and over so he was up against the pillows, long arms pulling the child in close. “It was like that before, wasn’t it? Back when yer Ma was so sick.”

Casper nodded, twisting to press his face against the man’s pajamas. “Nobody saw me,” he said quietly.

“Yeah. Grown-ups can get stupid like that sometimes. Don’t make it right, but I seen it happen.”

The boy didn’t say anything, just curled in closer. For a long moment the two of them sat, Stephen stroking the blonde hair absently, eyes on the ceiling.

Seated on the little daybed by the window, Amelia sighed. “This part of it was the hardest for him.”

The ghost didn’t ask her to elaborate. Didn’t need to.

Stephen cleared his throat again, turned his eyes back to the boy trying to worm his way into his robe. “Hey. Lookit me.”

The little face turned up.

“That shit ain’t _never_ gonna happen. You hear me?”

“But-”

“Yer Uncle Franklin don’t have a mean bone in his body. It’s scientifically impossible for him to hate _anyone_ , let alone his goddamn favorite person in the world. And what’s Uncle Sammy gonna do without his number one student, huh?”

Casper tucked his head back down but his frown was slipping away. “… and you?”

“Me? You kidding?” Stephen pulled the boy into his lap, resting his chin atop the blonde head. “How’m I supposed to ignore _you_ when yer the loudest person in the whole house?”

“Nuh-uh, _you_ are.”

“Well, yer on track to steal my title one’a these days.” Stephen chuckled, wrapping the boy a little tighter. “And anyway… I told ya before - I could never _ever_ hate you, Cas. Not _ever_.”

The ghost watching tightened his fists. His jaw ticked. He felt Amelia’s eyes on him, but he didn’t turn to face her. Couldn’t.

 _Not real_ , he said, over and over. _Not real, not real, not real_. 

It couldn’t be. 

Not even as the feeling of _familiar_ was still wriggling in his chest, stronger and stronger. 

The little boy on the bed couldn’t feel his ire. He was still looking up at his Uncle. “You couldn’t hate me even when I leave my toys around?”

“Nope.”

“Not even when you wanna sell me to the circus?”

“Not even then. I’d pocket the money, get halfway ‘round the block and hafta turn around and ask for ya back.”

Little arms snaked in under his robe, clinging. “What if they say ‘no refund’?”

“Oh, see _that’s_ when I’d threaten ‘em with litigation. Nobody wants to get dragged to court, so they’d just hand you over.”

A giggle - tiny, quiet - floated up. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Stephen nodded, then yawned. He fished his pocket watch from his robe pocket, flipping it open. “Almost 2. Think you could sleep again?”

The hands around his waist tightened.

“No dice, huh?”

A tiny shake of blonde hair.

The man yawned again, dropping the watch onto the side table. “All right, kid. You win. But _just_ for tonight. We ain’t makin’ this a habit.” 

The boy and the ghost both looked puzzled, and then the man was moving again, tugging the quilt out from under him. “We’re gonna figure somethin’ else out in the mornin’, when I can think. You got it?” He rolled the boy off his lap and back over onto the pillow, reached out to extinguish the lamp.

“Got it,” came the reply in the dark.

“Good. ‘Cause this bed is too short and Uncle Stephen’s back is gonna pay the price tomorrow.”

Casper floated at the end of the bed. Time moved by, marked by the soft _tch tch tch_ of the pocket watch on the table. The man on the bed was at an awkward angle; knees bent up, torso propped on the pillows, shoulders twisted at an angle. The bed barely held him. 

The child clung anyway. 

“He was wrong…” 

“What’s that, dear?” Amelia was beside him again. 

“He would hate me. They all would. And I’d be alone.”

She breathed in, reaching out to swipe something wet from his face. “This place is full of its own tragedies, Casper, but I think some of the worst ones are seeing the good moments, knowing exactly what comes afterwards.” 

He nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“This was the first time you’d told anyone about the dream. You always had very vivid ones, even after you died.”

He stared at the pair on the bed, and said nothing. 

“Anyway…” She let out a long breath, “after this, you and he established a routine.”

She snapped her fingers, and they were gone from the room. Casper blinked, taking in the sights of the kitchen around him. 

Ms. Danvers was at the stove brewing water. A pan of eggs hissed on the stove. A pad of butter sat glistening on a tray in the middle of the table, already attacked by a knife. Casper was already at the table, gnawing on a piece of toast. 

The titular Uncle arrived moments later with little more than a grunt, and the housekeeper turned to greet him, wincing when she did. “Someone looks ragged.”

“That’s what sleepin’ in a shoebox will do,” he growled, scrubbing his eyes. 

“I’ll make coffee, then.”

“Drop some whiskey in.”

“I absolutely won’t be doing that.”

“Oh, Nell. You always know how to make my mornin’.”

She tried to smack him with the spoon as he passed.

“Hi Uncle Stephen!” Casper’s fingers were shiny with butter, and there were crumbs on the plate. 

“Bulbhead.” He grabbed a piece of toast. “Hope one of us slept well.”

“I did!”

He snorted, and reached for the butter knife while Casper launched into a discussion about trains. 

Casper stood by Amelia, watching. 

Watched Nell place coffee on the table (“please tell me-” - “I’ll put whiskey in when the Earth freezes over, dear”) and spoon eggs onto their plates, watched the boy devour his breakfast, chipper as could be while Stephen leafed through the newspaper on the table and commented every so often on whatever the child was saying. Watched the scene wind itself down with dishes in the sink and an Uncle trying his best to wrangle the child to _stay still_ while he wiped butter off his face. 

“Stop _wriggling_ . Jesus. Gotta put a clause on the whole _dessert_ thing.”

“I can’t!” Casper bounced a few more times on his heels. “Are we gonna do anything today?”

“Got calls all day, Cas. Until 4 at least.”

“What about _after_?” 

“Don’t know about you, but I’m hittin’ the hay early. My back’s still smarting.” 

Casper glanced at the table, spotted his still-full milk cup and snatched it up for a sip. When he put it down, his face was a mess again. “Are you gonna sleep in my bed with me again?”

“Not a chance,” the man said too quickly, too scowly, because the child’s face fell.

“Oh…”

“Shit. Cas. I didn’t mean- sit back down a second, will ya?”

The boy nodded, climbed back up into his chair.

Stephen ran a hand through his hair, let out a breath. “Look. We both need a good night’s sleep. For me, that means sleepin’ in a bed I’m not hanging off the ends of. For you, it means doin’ _somethin’_ about these damn dreams. Right?”

Casper nodded.

“Right. So we gotta put our heads together here. ‘Cause I don’t wanna keep findin’ you wanderin’ around in the middle of the night.” He leaned an elbow on the table, eyes on his nephew. “I’m clueless again, kid. Ya gotta help me out.”

The little boy nodded again, expression solemn. “I dunno, Uncle Stephen. The dream...it’s like-” He gestured loosely, eyes on his hands. “Like my head’s a pricker bush. And the dream’s just _stuck_. And I can’t shake it loose.”

“Yeah, that’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

“It’s a bitch.”

“Language.”

“Sorry.”

Stephen took a moment to raise his tragically-unspiked coffee to his lips. “What if I could shake it loose for ya?”

“Huh?”

“At bedtime.” He put the mug down and turned in his chair so he was facing the boy head-on. “What if-” He reached out with both hands, caught the boy gently by the head. “-we give ‘em a good thrashin’-” Both hands moved in tandem, rapidly ruffling the boy’s hair and making him erupt in laughter. “-then they’ll know not to hang around at night.” He lowered his hands, a questioning smile on his face. “How ‘bout that? Think that’d work?”

Casper was beaming. “Yeah, I think so.”

“All right then, we got us a game plan.” Stephen slapped his knee. “Go on, go play. I’ll come find ya after work.”

“Okay!” Bouncing once again, the boy left the kitchen.

Stephen watched him go, then turned to grab his coffee mug-

-only to find it was no longer on the table.

A quick glance over towards the stove and he found Ms. Danvers holding it-

-and the bottle of whiskey from the top cabinet.

“Nell?”

Cheeks pink, she tipped a generous amount into the mug and slid it back across the table. “You might have earned that,” she mumbled.

A crooked sort of grin crept across his face as he picked up the mug and got to his feet. “Should call Sammy today. If Earth’s freezin’ over, he’s gonna wanna cover the saplings.”

“Don’t make me regret being nice to you.” She busied herself with clearing the table.

“I’ll erase it from the docket,” he said, saluting her with the mug. 

“See that you do.”

He shook his head, turning on his heel to leave, passing two unseen ghosts on the way. 

“He’d do it, too,” said Amelia, answering the question before Casper could ask it. She smiled. “ _If it’s real_ , I mean. He’d do it. Every night before bed. The two of you had a morning routine, and then a bedtime routine, and later on there was a routine for the afternoon and the evening. And he’d stick by them.”

“If it’s real,” he said, weakly. 

“Right,” said Amelia. “If it’s real.” 

* * *

When the next memory appeared, Spring was in the early phases of waking up outside the windows. 

“I thought you’d want to see this,” Amelia said. “Since you didn’t get a chance to last time.”

“See what?”

She leaned against the wall. “It’s March 5th.”

“So?”

She raised a brow. “I know ghosts have a hard time remembering. But I didn’t think you’d have actually forgotten your own-”

“BIRTHDAY!” 

The little child running down the hall interrupted the pair. He was in pajamas, and his hair, in the months passing, had finally begun to grow out into fine curls. He barreled across the carpet towards a door that Casper knew well by now. He pulled it open with another shout of, “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” before throwing himself headlong into the dark room. 

Casper blinked, hand fluttering to his chest. “It’s… my _birthday?_ ”

“March 5th.” 

He repeated the date soundlessly, hand still closed tight, afraid he’d forget it. 

_March 5th, March 5th, March 5th_

“Stephen McFadden wasn’t there when you were born. Neither were your other Uncles.” 

“... why?”

“There were… issues in the family.” She said it slowly, framing each word carefully. “Your father and your brothers didn’t quite get along. Or, rather… your father and your Uncle _Stephen_ didn’t get along.”

“... why?”

“Another memory. Soon. But for now, just know that you had company. You were turning _five_. And you wanted to make sure that he didn’t forget it.” 

They watched as the memory of the boy dragged his uncle, in robe and slippers, from the room and down the hall, chattering excitedly about the million and one things they _needed_ to do that day to celebrate. Watched as the pair made their way to the kitchen, heard the boy cry out in excitement. Amelia snapped her fingers and they were in the kitchen.

Casper was clambering up on a chair, gaping at a brand new sled that was sitting on the table. “Wow! Is this for me?”

Stephen eyed it suspiciously.

Ms. Danvers crossed from the stove, put a cup of coffee in his hands. “Arrived this morning. One of the boys brought it in before I could read the tag, I’m sorry.”

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“Uncle Stephen, look!” 

“I see it, Cas.”

The boy in the footie pajamas turned a quizzical eye towards his uncle. “It’s not from you?”

“Another death machine? Not exactly my style, kid.”

“So who…?” Casper’s hand found the cardstock tag, tied with twine to the left runner. “F-A- Oh.” He looked up again, between the pair of adults watching him. “He couldn’t make it back?”

“I’m afraid not.” Nell smoothed her apron, frowning at her hands. 

The boy let the tag flutter back down, slumping lower in his seat. He spotted a rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper on the table beside the sled. He poked at it. “A book too?”

“We could always use a new one for bedtimes,” she said.

He nodded glumly.

“You know, we’re not due for snow anytime soon. Why don’t I have one of the boys put it in the shed,” she lifted the sled up and off of the table, “where it belongs, and you and I get started on pancakes, hmm?”

Another slow nod. “Yeah, okay.”

As the housekeeper moved past the uncle, the two spirits watched her touch his elbow. “You’d better have something good planned,” she whispered.

“Don’t get’cher bloomers in a bunch, I got it covered,” he hissed back.

Her eyebrows shot up and she turned on her heel, hitting him in the stomach with the back of the sled on her way out of the room.

Wheezing, gaping in shock at the coffee he’d spilled on his bathrobe, he didn’t recover until he heard the boy’s laughter. He turned a wry smile towards the table. “Ya liked that, huh?”

“She got you pretty good,” Casper snickered.

Stephen put the half-empty cup down on the table, grabbed a rag from a drawer to blot pointlessly at the stain. “Christ, this is never gonna come out, ya know. I’m gonna hafta order a new one.”

“Why?”

“Whadda ya mean ‘why’? Look at it!”

“So?”

“ _So?_ ”

“It still works, right?”

“It-”

“It keeps you warm. You don’t wear it outside. And now, when you look at it, you get to think about when Ms. Danvers whacked you with my new sled, which is _really_ funny.”

“To _you_.”

“To _anybody_. Funny is funny.”

Stephen gave up, tossing the rag on the counter. “Why do I get the feelin’ this is now the _only_ thing yer gonna talk about today?”

The boy shrugged, beaming.

“Great.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Amelia waved a hand and the moment sped up, through Ms. Danvers’ return and breakfast, slowing it only as the boy was hopping down from his chair to get away from the uncle who was trying to scrub his face with a handkerchief. “Can I go play now?”

“No, ya gotta go get dressed,” Stephen told him. “And wear somethin’ _nice_.”

“Aw, why?”

“‘Cause the train ta Portland has a dress code, that’s why.”

“The **_what?!_ **” the memory of Casper’s voice pitched so high that the ghost of him cringed in embarrassment.

“Thought we’d take a ride into the city.” Stephen was smiling. “But we gotta leave soon if we’re gonna catch it, so go get dressed, pronto.”

The boy took off like a shot, hit the doorframe on his way out, hollering back “I’M OKAY!” as he vanished.

Stephen shook his head, tucked the syrup-covered handkerchief into his pocket, and picked up his coffee cup again. “See?” he said, watching Ms. Danvers collect the plates from the table. “Covered.”

“Loathe as I am to give your ego an unnecessary boost,” she said, crossing to the sink. “I’ll admit that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen him get over his disappointment at one of Master McFadden’s gifts.”

“Yeah?”

“You remember last year,” she started, then paused, turned back towards the table. “Or were you still hiding away in that office all day at that point?”

“I was around,” he said pointedly. “But Franklin was here. He took care’a that stuff.”

“He did,” she nodded, turning back to the sink, running water over dirty dishes. “Better than I’d ever been able to do, but it was a whole day of non-stop distraction. Any lull in the action and the melancholy returned full-force. It was the same at Christmas. And any day Master Mcfadden deigns to send a token through the post.” She shut off the water and crossed back to the table, picking up the paper-wrapped parcel and tearing it open.

His eyes widened. “What’re you-”

She let the paper flutter to the table, cracked open the cover and cleared her throat, reading aloud, “‘ _To Casper, Happy fifth birthday. Sorry for not being there. Next year at Whipstaff.”_ She closed the book with a harsh _snap_ , put it down with an even harsher _thunk_. “Each one is practically identical. Go find _Gulliver’s Travels_ from his fourth birthday. It reads exactly the same. The boy’s mother had died three months prior and the man sends a book with an inscription so cold he may as well have been writing to a stranger.”

Stephen took a slow sip. “Ya’d think the kid’d be used to it by now.”

The housekeeper surprised him by pulling back a chair and taking a seat directly opposite him. “You’re doing it again.”

His spine went rigid. “What?”

“Letting your own childhood paint how you see _his_ .” She jerked her head in the direction of the door. “You formed your shell early, you _had_ to, to survive in this house. It was never right, but it’s what was. But that boy has something that you never did.”

He ran his thumb along the lip of the cup, watched her.

“He has _you_ ,” she said. “So while, yes, McFadden Fathers seem incapable of doing anything but hurting their sons, McFadden Uncles have proven capable of bucking tradition in favor of something better.”

He scoffed, but kept silent.

She stood. “Perhaps if Alistair McFadden had had a brother or two, we all would be better off today.” She held out a hand and he put his cup in it. “Go on, now. I hear you’ve got a train to catch.” 

* * *

Amelia snapped her fingers again, and they were outside of the house for the first time, standing at the train station on the bay. Men in suits and women in dresses mulled around the empty tracks, hats shielding them from the late wintertime Maine sun. The ocean across the way lapped at the rocks. 

He looked around the swath of pastel lace and parasols and the glittering of watch chains, finally landing on a scowling man sat stiffly in an expensive, gray suit beneath a black, wool coat. There was a black bowler atop his head. Next to him, a boy bundled for the early Springtime cold sat swinging his feet. He was dressed in white pants and a thick blue overcoat. His fair, curly hair peeked out from beneath his cap.

“What are they doing?” The ghost watched them, curiously. 

“Watching,” said Amelia. “You loved trains.”

“Trains are cool!” he defended. 

“They are. _Very_ cool.” She bumped her hip against him. “ _If_ this is real,” she began with a grin, “then you have to know that once a week, your Uncle Stephen took you here. To that bench.” She gestured with a jerk of her chin. “To watch the trains together.”

“S’not real, though.”

“Of course not.” She grinned. “But if it _is_ real, then this was where you went. Rain or shine. You walked all the way down, watched the trains… Sometimes you went out afterwards to the little stall across the street and got saltwater taffy.”

Casper snorted. 

“Your favorite flavor was almond. Your Uncle Stephen secretly loved chocolate. _Today_ though? It was your 5th birthday. And there would be a surprise.”

“Is he finally going to push me onto the tracks and run?” 

“Aren’t you the comedian today. But not quite.”

He wanted to ask more, but the ground began to rumble, and a child’s shriek attracted the attention of a few of the station's attendants, and a long, lanky hand snatched a child back from running away. 

“The train’s coming!”

“Yeah. I see that, short stuff.”

“Look! There it is!” 

“Mmmhm.”

“The smoke is there!”

“It is.”

“What kind of train do you think it is!”

“I dunno.”

“That’s okay. You don’t know any.”

“Gee. Thanks, bulbhead.”

“It’s getting closer!” The kid went to run forward again, and the scowling man rolled his eyes, holding the back of the kid’s shirt. 

“Can we not run into the tracks t’day, kid?”

“ _Look at the train!_ ”

The train was coming. An old steam engine. The trains that ran through Friendship now were more modern, silver things. Casper hadn’t seen one like this since the last train show that had come through five years ago. Before the Harvey’s had arrived. He’d gone alone, and slipped through town, ogling at the trains before he’d had to be back to make dinner. 

He hadn’t looked anything like this child, now, who was jumping up and down, pointing. Stephen shook his head, grinning, finally standing. He reached into his inner-jacket pocket, pulling out two slips of hard paper. 

The trains whistle sounded and the child looked about ready to pass out. 

“Kid,” Stephen said over the rumble of the wheels, pinching the child’s shoulder. “Here.”

Casper looked up, saw the ticket, and shrieked again. “We’re gonna ride!”

The ghost swallowed and looked away. 

_Not real_

_Not real_

_Not real_

The train finally pulled up, and attendants stepped out with hole punchers. The boy tried to step up, but his hand was grabbed by a larger one. “Slow down, bulbead.” 

“We’re going on!” Said Casper to the train attendant, holding out his ticket. “This is my Uncle Stephen! He got us _tickets_!”

“Cas, he doesn’t need to know.”

“We’re going to _Portland!_ ”

“It’s fine, sir,” said the attendant, grinning down at the kid. “Is this your first time on a train?”

“Yeah, but I know _everything_ about them! My favorite kind is-”

“Come _on_ , Casper. Places to be.” 

Stephen pulled the kid away before he spent the rest of the day talking the man’s ear off about engines, thanking the man for his patience under his breath. They boarded the train together, hand in hand., Stephen pulling the child up into the air by his arm over the gap. 

Amelia leaned down just a bit. “Would you like to ride along? I could move us along faster, but I thought that, even if this _isn’t_ real, it might be fun.”

The ghost turned towards the car the man and the boy had entered, twisting his hands. There was something smooth and hard-edged pressing into his right palm, even though it was empty. The whistle blew again. From down the platform the conductor was calling _all aboooaaard!_ The car doors began to close. “Okay fine!”

Another snap and they were inside the car, half a dozen rows back from where the memory of himself was having a _very_ hard time staying seated.

“It’s an original train,” Amelia sang, watching the ghost’s breath catch at the sight of it all. “Steam engine. Luxury seating. Cost a good penny to even get aboard. Better than a toy, isn’t it?”

He made a choking noise. 

“You know the President once rode this train, I hear? And this is first class by the way. Did you know the windows are-”

“Original Chelsea glass?” he whispered. “And _red oak_ wall paneling.”

“Your Uncle was not kidding about knowing everything.”

Casper could have cried, looking around the cabin. The fancy women looked like cream puffs sitting in their padded leather chairs beside somber looking men in top hats. “I have a _model_ of this train,” he said, voice cracking. “I know I do. It goes around the top of the playroom.”

“That’s right! You do, don’t you. And didn’t my daughter-”

“Yeah. She did. Kat set it up for me,” he breathed. “Because it was my _favorite_.”

“She did.”

“And I remembered it then. I had a _memory_ then. She helped me remember! And I remembered that I got this train from…” 

He paused. 

Stopped. 

His head hurt. 

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I… I _remember_. I remember, I got it from-”

Amelia watched him carefully, tilting her head. 

The memory he’d had before, so clear, was fading away. Falling beneath the surface, almost too far away to catch. “I don’t…”

“Casper?”

“I thought it was… but I don’t… I don’t-” He closed his eyes. Shook his head. The image of J.T. was pulsing away. Another face was taking its place, and he opened his eyes quickly, the colors snapping away. 

Amelia watched him, gaze cool. “You alright, Casper?”

He caught his breath, swallowing the feeling back. “Yeah,” he said. “Fine.”

She raised a brow, but didn’t say anything else. “Oh look!” She said instead, pointing over him towards a seat in the center. “There you are!” 

And he was there. Sitting on the window seat, face pressed to the glass. 

* * *

The conductor made his way through the car, announcing that Union Station was approaching, as outside the train’s brakes began to hiss. But even above all that noise, Casper could hear the memory of himself shrieking again. “UNCLE STEPHEN! IS THAT-?”

“Oh, they beat us here?” Unphased by the volume, Stephen got up on one knee to look over the child’s head out the window. “Well, surprise, short stuff. Gotcha two bozos for yer birthday.”

Casper made a rush for the aisle, but Stephen caught him around the middle, picking him up with only a minor grunt of effort. “Hold yer horses, kid.” He wrangled the boy back into the coat and hat he’d shed during the trip. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.” His tone got so serious so quickly that the little boy was instantly still. “S’a _big_ city out there. An’ Ms. Danvers wouldn’t let me put ya on a leash like I wanted, so you gotta stick like glue, capiche?”

Blonde curls bobbed as he nodded quickly. “Like glue.”

“I mean it.” Stephen hefted the child up, holding him against his hip. “‘Cause if you wander off and get picked up by the circus, how’m I ever gonna find ya again, huh?” That got the boy latching onto his lapels and he chuckled. “So what are ya again?”

“Glue.”

“S’right. Okay. Let’s go.” 

They made it no more than two steps onto the platform when a familiar deep voice bellowed, “Who’s got a hug for his favorite uncle?”

Beside him, Samuel snorted. “ _Debatable_.” 

Casper squealed, then turned a nervous glance up the uncle who was still holding him. “Can I be glue to him too?”

“‘Course.” 

Stephen set the boy down and he took off the instant his shoes touched the pavement, launching himself into Franklin’s waiting arms. The big man swept him easily off his feet, tossing him high once before holding him tight to his side. “Holy smokes, short stuff! You got so big! What’re you, eighteen now?”

“I’m _five_!” Casper laughed.

“Oh! Right, right,” Franklin chuckled. He ruffled the kid’s head. “Hey! Hair’s growin’!”

“Yup!” Casper shook his head. Blonde curls flew around. “I like it! S’bouncy!”

“Any longer and you’ll need to tie it back like Sammy over here.”

“He will _not_ be doin’ that,” Stephen said, eyeing the man’s small ponytail with a furious distaste. 

Samuel scoffed, crossing his arms. He was wearing yellow plaid and the effect was dizzying. “None’a yous know anything about style.”

Stephen barked a laugh, giving his own well cut sleeves a little tug, adjusting silver cufflinks with an obvious twist. “Says the man dressed like a train jumper!” 

His younger brother glared. 

The eldest ignored it, turning back to Franklin. “Better be plannin’ on lettin’ him walk on his own today,” Stephen strolled up, scowling. “Damn legs are gonna fall off.”

Franklin laughed, turning to the kid in his arms. “He still this grumpy with you?”

Casper nodded, cheerfully. “Uh huh!” 

“Oof. What’s your secret, kid?”

The boy shrugged. “You get used to it.” He glanced over Franklin’s shoulder and smiled anew. “Uncle Sammy!” The shortest of the men wasn’t forgotten by his nephew, who stretched out a hand beyond Franklin’s back, eyes shining.

Samuel ruffled his hair. “Hey kiddo.”

“Uncle Sammy, the tree is getting _bigger!_ ”

“Is it?”

“Mmmhm! We measured it against me! It’s almost taller than me!”

“Can’t wait to see, bulbhead!”

Casper leaned backwards in Franklin’s arms, the man supporting him, as the child looked at his guardian upside down. “They’re coming back?”

“Staying the week,” said Stephen. 

“ _Really_!”

“Really!” Franklin answered for his brother, hefting the kid back up for another hug and a loud kiss to the cheek, Casper shrieking with a fresh round of giggles. “But first, I didn’t ride a whole day on that clunky thing with this guy for nothin’.”

Samuel rolled his eyes. “I’m right here.”

“What’s say we actually go explore this dump, huh?”

“Yes!”

Casper was passed off to Samuel, who held his hand, the two of them walking ahead (“I’m glue to you, Uncle Sammy!” - “Whatever you say, kiddo”) while Franklin fell behind for a moment. Casper and Amelia hung back as well, watching. 

“So,” said the youngest brother. “He’s still alive.”

Stephen glared. “Course he’s still _alive_ . What? Ya’ think I keep him in a _crate_ for the last five months!”

Franklin raised his hands. “Just sayin’-”

“Keep _sayin’_ shit like that an’ see how fast I make ya’ sleep outside.”

“I’m _just sayin_ ’,” Franklin continued, unbothered by his brother’s tone, “that he looks _good_.”

Stephen snorted. 

“I’m serious! Kid looks _top notch_.”

“Yeah, well. Usually takes me an hour to wrangle him inta’ somethin’ like what he’s wearin’. Today I got lucky with bribery.” 

Franklin laughed. It was a soft, fond noise. “He tells me on our calls that you’ve started puttin’ him to bed, too. Said you learned how to make a few recipes from Ms. D while you were at it.” 

“Oatmeal an’ hot chocolate ain’t recipes.”

“You look good, too. Kid’s been following my directions.”

“What? Drivin’ me crazy? Does that on his own.” 

“You put on a little weight.”

“Ex _cuse_ me?”

Franklin barked out a laugh, making a move to poke the man in the side. Stephen stepped away with a glare. “Lemme rephrase that, ya diva. Yer less of a walkin’ talkin’ skeleton. How’s that suit your delicate sensibilities, hmm?”

Stephen rolled his eyes, shoved his hands in his pockets.

“And lemme guess, with him wakin’ ya up at dawn every day, you’ve started passin’ out by 10:30.”

“If I even make it _that_ long,” the taller one grumbled.

“How much sleep did you used to get down in Boston?”

“Enough.”

Franklin raised an eyebrow.

“Fine, less than now.”

“And ya look less like a racoon because of it.”

“Yer makin’ me blush with all this flattery, Franklin.”

That comment got him a hearty clap on the shoulder that sent him staggering and another belly laugh from his baby brother. He’d barely recovered when the same thick arm that had knocked him off balance was wrapping around his middle and yanking him close. “Hell, I _missed_ ya, man! Can’t remember the last time I actually missed yer sour mug.”

“I’m already regretting inviting you.”

Further ahead of them, still holding Samuel’s hand, Casper turned back and waved with his free hand. Stephen raised a hand to wave back, and Franklin chuckled softly. “Don’t think we missed you comin’ off the train, today.”

“Don’t know what’cher talkin’ about.”

Franklin gave another squeeze. “Kid’s gettin’ attached. Don’t think he’s the only one, neither.” 

“Knock if off.”

“I ain’t kiddin’, Stephen.” The big man eased away, but not before putting a hand on the other’s arm. “Hey, somebody’s got a little bit’a muscle now! Was all that talk about the kid’s legs fallin’ off just a cover so you could hog him all week?”

“Would you can it? Carryin’ the kid’s the only way ta make sure he stays still for a goddamn minute!”

“Yeah, he’s a grade-A wriggler, that one.” Franklin slid his hands easily into the pockets of his overcoat. “Grade-A snuggler too, though, am I right?”

The only answer he got was a grumbled, “Pick up the pace, would ya?” from a brother whose ears had gone unmistakably red.

* * *

Portland, Maine was a bustling seaside city. 

It wasn’t nearly as big as Boston. Not nearly as noisy or dirty or frantic, either. All the things that Stephen loved about the metropolis. It was barely a city by comparison. 

But to the child, who’d never seen anything beyond the small town of Friendship (with its single general store and tiny school and rocky beaches), was overwhelmed, wide eyes taking in everything around him. 

One or two carriages bumped down the cobblestone roads. Women and men mulled around, arm in arm. Above their heads, strings of wires ran along the grid of the small city like a spider’s web. 

“Are those telephone wires?” Casper had been trying his best to follow directions and stick close to his Uncle’s, but Stephen could see the way he was wriggling to run forward, and reached down to grab his hand. He looked up where the kid was pointing. 

“Are those-? Oh. No, kid, that’s for the trolley.”

“The _what_?”

“Electric cars,” Samuel butted in, hands in the pockets of his jacket. “New innovation comin’ through in the past few years here. Neat, ain’t it!” 

“Where are they!” Casper pulled on Stephen’s hand, almost expecting to see one around the corner. 

“Probably makin’ rounds. But we’ll be takin’ one to lunch.”

“Really!”

“Oh yeah,” said Franklin, reaching into his vests pocket, pulling out small slips of paper. “Had ta’ pull a tooth convincin’ your Uncle Stephen, though.”

Samuel snorted. “You an’ the future are gonna have to call a truce at some point.” 

“Screw that. Don’t trust it.” 

“You trust _phones_.”

“Because those make me a hunk of scratch.” He glowered at the lines. “These things might kill me.”

“Don’t worry!” Casper tugged his hand. “I’ll keep you safe!”

“Don’t know how you’re doin’ that when I have ta’ keep snatching ya’ up from trippin’ over your damn feet.”

“Uncle Stephen.”

“Bout near cracked your head open runnin’ up the stairs, yesterday. If I hadn’t grabbed ya’ up-”

“ _Uncle Stephen_!”

“Fine. Jesus. You’ll keep me safe.” 

“An’ Uncle Sammy is _super smart_ . He knows _everythin’_ about this stuff, right, Uncle Sammy?”

Samuel was beaming under the kid’s ego boost, giving Stephen a look that had his eldest brother’s eyes rolling. “See. Kid gets it.”

“Kid can’t spell yet. Doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about.”

“Hey! Do too!” 

The scene shifted a few times. They were somewhere else in the city. Franklin stood with Casper by a canal throwing crackers to the ducks. Another where the boy looked at the boats near the lighthouse. 

Amelia and Casper followed close behind, undisturbed by the people moving around them. “You were so excited to see them all together again. And your other Uncles were excited to see the way you’d begun to change.”

“I look the _same_.”

“Hardly.” She tilted her chin. “You look happier. Healthier. And you were growing quickly.” She smiled, hand fluttering to her chest. “I didn’t know your hair was curly, either! Took me for a surprise to see! Your father had it cut short so often.”

Casper rolled his eyes.

“It’s sweet,” she said. 

“It’s _not_ ,” said the ghost, touching his now bald head. 

“It _is_.” 

The little boy in question jumped over cracks in the cobblestone, curls bouncing. Franklin reached down to ruffle them. Amelia reached down to take the ghosts arm, pulling him along faster as the Uncle’s crossed the road. “You looked good. And they were beginning to see the changes in him, too.” 

He did. Even Casper could see that. He stood a little taller. Had softened around the jaw and the eyes. Still.

“And the two of you? They noticed that. The way he acted around you. The way you were around him.”

“If it’s even-”

“He was becoming more patient. You’ve seen it in the memories.” Amelia didn’t give him a chance to finish his sentence. “But it was the first time they’d seen _this_ part of him in action. It’s a far step from the man who stepped on a toy and threatened a child. Far step from what they knew when he was alone, too. They weren’t really familiar with _this_ man.” She gestured to Stephen, who was still holding Casper’s hand, pointing at the lighthouse in the distance. “But they liked him, even so. Even more.” 

“He’s not like this where I came from.”

“True.”

“Which means that part of him still lives there. And it’s going to come out. Just wait.” He pulled his arm out of her gentle grip. “Just wait. He’ll snap.”

She smiled. The sounds of the waves crashing on the rocks were everywhere. Somewhere, down the road, there was a street band trumpeting away. The wires above their heads vibrated. 

There was a child shrieking. _The trolly! The trolly!_

Amelia’s face suddenly fell. “Oh no…”

Casper jerked around. “What!”

“Oh _no_!”

He almost expected a hole to be opening up in the fabric of this universe, or the child to be rammed down by the front of the electrified car rumbling its way down the middle of the street. He spun back and forth, looking wide eyed at the suddenly very horrified woman who was patting down the front of her dress, searching fruitlessly for something that wasn’t there. “ _Oh no_!”

“Amelia!”

“I forgot our tickets!”

Casper choked, rolled his eyes hard enough to stick, and muttered something about _everyone’s a comedian_ under his breath while Amelia laughed hard at her own joke. They boarded the trolley with the little family, a very grumbly ghost behind her. “Loosen up,” she told him, taking a seat behind the men (Casper bouncing on the seat beside Stephen, face pressed to the glass). “It’s a fun day. Enjoy it.”

“Whatever,” he grumbled back, trying hard to ignore the moment Stephen hauled the child into his lap so he could see out the window better. 

* * *

The trolley ride went smoothly, as did lunch as a bustling eatery filled with locals and tourists alike, though the boy took great pains to tell the occupants of _every_ adjacent table whose birthday it was, which garnered him a dozen indulgent smiles and a slice of apple pie on the house.

As the foursome made their way back outside, Casper spotted something just ahead that had him tugging at Stephen’s hand hard. “Ice! Ice!” He pointed excitedly at what was no more than a frozen patch where the street was uneven. “Can I skate on it?”

“You got skates?”

“Just with my shoes, silly.” He tugged again.

“Why?”

“‘Cause it’s _fun_ to slip and slide!” 

Stephen eyed the patch warily as they drew closer. “I dunno, Cas.”

“Pleeeeeaaaaase?”

He glanced back at his brothers, but they were occupied with a map they’d picked up from the train station, and were debating what they had time to see before the afternoon train back to Friendship.

In the few seconds it took for him to take his eyes off the child, said child slipped out of his grasp. “Hey!”

But it was too late, the boy was out on the patch of ice, spinning and laughing. “See? Fun!” he declared.

Stephen sighed, “Just don’t fall down, alright? Last thing we need is-”

Casper’s foot hit a spot that was apparently mostly thawed and sunk straight through, throwing him off balance and landing him on hands and knees in what was now mostly muddy slush.

“Jesus Christ.” Stephen hung his head. Behind him, he could hear Franklin and Samuel snickering. 

From his spot on the ground, Casper’s bottom lip trembled and their laughter died off. Franklin took a step forward, but Stephen beat him to it. Moving purposefully, he scooped the boy up by the torso and set him on his feet again, crouching on the cobblestone. “You okay? Anythin’ bleedin’?”

Casper held out his hands, the heels of which were pink and raw, sniffling.

“Aw, that’s not so bad.” His uncle reached in his coat and pulled out his handkerchief, wiping the boy’s hands gently. “Ya did a number on yer outfit though, huh? You gotta _listen_ , Cas’.”

“M’sorry,” came the quiet reply.

“Yer gonna be when I give ya the bill,” Stephen said, wiping in vain at the mud on the boy’s knees. 

“My sock is wet.”

“I bet it is. And idiot Uncle Stephen didn’t think ta pack a change of anythin’.”

“What’re we gonna do?”

“Go home early?” 

The boy’s eyes, still brimming with tears, went wide. 

“That’s still almost two hours ‘til we can get ya changed.” Stephen scratched at his chin. “An’ Ms. Danvers’ll have my head if I let ya lose any toes.”

The boy gasped.

Stephen snorted out a laugh, tucking the soiled handkerchief away. “We’ll figure something out. C’mere, you.” He hoisted the boy up into his arms and got to his feet. Casper tucked his face in the side of his Uncle’s neck. “Hey,” he addressed his brothers as they drew closer. “That map tell us where a department store is? Kid’s gonna need new socks and shoes.”

Franklin and Samuel exchanged a glance, and then Samuel nodded, pointing at the paper in his hand. “One block over, looks like.”

“Perfect.” Stephen nodded.

“You want me to take ‘im?” Franklin asked. “Keep the mud off ya?”

Casper clung a little tighter at that. 

“S’fine.” The eldest brother shifted the boy on his hip, leaving a smudge of grime on his overcoat as he did so. “Which way?”

Samuel pointed and they set off.

Lingering by the mud puddle, Amelia hummed.

“What?” Casper asked.

“He didn’t even raise his voice,” she said. “Even though you’d done what he’d _specifically_ asked you not to do.”

He didn’t meet her eye, watching the little group round the corner and disappear. “Are we done yet?” 

“I suppose we _could_ be,” she said. “Unless, of course, you wanted to ride the train back home again?”

The ghost crossed his arms, rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

“That’s the spirit.” She snapped her fingers and they were back on the classic luxury liner, with nothing but forest on either side of them, lit by a deep red-purple sky. “Oh goodness, looks like somebody had a long day.” With a smile, she pointed to the seats directly across the aisle.

With a frown, Casper turned to find the memory of himself only a foot and a half away, hat missing and chin tucked halfway into the collar of his coat, blonde curls nearly hiding his closed eyes. The new leather shoes caught the glint of the gaslight sconces. He was sitting on his Uncle’s lap, and when the train rounded a curve and the boy lolled forward, he was caught up by long arms and drawn back to lean against a slender torso. He shifted the kid to face him, hands on his back. 

From the seat opposite the boy and his guardian, Franklin chuckled softly. “Lookit’choo two. Sammy, you ever think they’d end up this cozy?”

“Not in a hundred years,” the middle brother agreed.

“Would the two’a you give it a rest already?” Stephen grumbled.

“But it’s fun,” Franklin grinned. “Ain’t been able ta make your ears stay red this long in years.”

“Decades,” Sammy added.

“Like back when we were kids.” Franklin twirled his mustache. “Think the last time we managed it was when we finally figured out who all those poems were for.”

“How’s that goin’, by the way? You and Nell alone in the house together?” Samuel folded his hands over his crossed legs.

“It’s goin’ none’a yer business, that’s how it’s goin’.” Stephen scowled.

The pair across from him snickered. “Now _that_ sounds familiar.” Franklin grinned.

“Ya know this means we’re gonna ask her the same thing when we get home, right?” Sammy asked.

“Still could make you both sleep outside, ya know.”

An attendant passed by, offering drinks or cigarettes, but they waved her along.

“So,” Franklin asked, crossing one leg over the other. “We were his presents from you. What did dear old dad get’m?”

“God, yeah.” Samuel sat forward. “Remember last year?”

“Mmmm.” The youngest nodded. “Gave the kid some shit souvenir from London an’ a book. Put some stupid inscription on the inside-”

“Next year at Whipstaff,” muttered Stephen. 

“ _Yeah_. That was it. Didn’t think you were around for the kid then? Stuck in your office. Avoiding him like the plague.”

Stephe’s ears turned pink. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well. He got one again this year. Nell says there’s a collection.”

“There is.” Franklin took off his hat, raking his fingers through his hair. “Poor kid. Took me forever to take his mind off it then.”

“Yeah, well… Took me less time thanks ta’ this.”

In his lap, Casper snuggled closer, letting out a heavy breath before hiding his face inside the man’s coat, away from the warm evening light. 

Franklin looked like he wanted to say something, but held back. Instead; “Glad we did today.”

Stephen looked over at his younger brothers. They were sitting across in the two chairs facing Stephen and the child now in his lap. He shifted the kid, settling his chin into the blonde curls. “Yeah,” he said. “An I’m… glad you’re both here.”

Franklin’s eyes widened and he whacked Samuel on the arm. “Shit, when the drink girl comes back around, flag her down, will ya?”

“Why?” the middle brother asked, rubbing his arm.

“You kiddin’? Ol’ Stretch just said he _likes_ havin’ us around! We gotta toast to that!”

“Oh shit, you’re right!”

“All right, all right,” Stephen frowned at the pair of grinning faces turned his way. “An’ you wonder why I never say shit like that.”

“You’re just lucky the kid’s in the way, or I’d be climbin’ in yer lap right now,” Franklin said.

Without thinking, Stephen snorted in laughter. In his arms, the boy stirred but didn’t wake. “Well, let’s toast to human shields then.”

The attendant appeared again and Samuel raised a hand, waving her over. 

Amelia and Casper, in their seats nearby, watched the men drink whiskey, laughing quietly as the train rumbled and bumped. The child in his Uncle’s lap had tucked his head almost completely inside the black coat. Samuel and Stephen had both taken cigarettes and the air around them was misty. 

Casper swallowed. There was a feeling around him. A heavy warmth that he couldn’t shake. The scratch of wool on his arms that wouldn’t fade. He breathed past it.

“All around a good birthday, I think.” 

Casper turned to Amelia. Her face was soft, watching the men. “The world was right when the McFadden family was together again.”

“Yeah,” he said sourly, hands twisting in his lap. Across the aisle, Stephen put down his drink to run his hand down the boy’s spine. He felt a weight brush down his own and he hunched his shoulders, clearing his throat. His eyes burned. “That’s how they are. The ghostly trio. Together again.”

Amelia looked over at the little family. “Your math is wrong.”

Casper frowned up at her. 

“Trio,” she said. “Four isn’t a trio.” 

Casper stayed quiet until the train finally pulled into the station. 

* * *

There were more moments after that. Flashes of them. The week together. 

First; Samuel uncovered the trees in the early spring light with Casper’s help. 

“You were right!” the middle brother said. “They _are_ taller than ya’!”

“Told you!” 

Second; Nell sat back at the table while Stephen proved to his brothers that he _could_ make hot chocolate _and_ oatmeal, going through each step like an old-time Boston cooking show (which included a lot of growling and swearing and fighting) and from what the ghost could see, it was all they ate that day. 

“You know I could help,” said Nell from her seat at the table. She’d been put there by Stephen. 

“ _I can do it_ ,” said Stephen. “So first… you put in the cocoa-”

“Milk,” Nell corrected. 

“Right. Milk first.”

“He’s gonna burn down the house,” said Samuel.

“Fuck off!”

“Language!” screeched Casper. 

“ _Sorry_ ,” snarled Stephen. “So then ya’ put in the cocoa.” He dumped in a random amount. Nell winced. “An ya’ boil it-”

“ _Simmer_ ,” hissed Nell, who looked like she wanted to pop out of her seat to save her precious pots and pans. “You _simmer_ . Or you’ll _burn the milk_.”

“Fine. _Simmer_.”

“Jesus, you’re right,” muttered Franklin. 

“Alright, that’s it.” Stephen threw down the spoon. “You wanna take this outside?”

“Oh, we can take it outside.”

“Oh _yeah_?”

“ _Fuck yeah_ ,” Franklin said, chair screeching back. “S’been a minute since I knocked you around!”

“I’ll reff!” Samuel said, grinning. 

Nell whipped Casper out of the kitchen and distracted him until his Uncle’s returned from the yard, looking a little worse for wear, with ruffled clothes, cut fists, and bruised egos. 

She sat in the library, the boy at her side on the chaise, a leather-bound journal open in her lap, as the brothers shuffled past, raising her voice as she caught sight of them. “And what’s the last step, love? After you add the cocoa but _before_ you simmer the milk. Help me remember.”

“Take it outside like a bunch of cavemen!” Casper recited as if he’d been practicing. “Proving once again why a pa-pay...” She leaned in and whispered something in his ear. “Why a patriarchal society is fundamentally flawed!” he finished proudly.

Stephen shrunk a little in his suit. 

Franklin looked ready to sink into the floor. 

“And _that_ concludes our recipe for Hot Chocolate ala’ Uncle Stephen.” She made a final flourish with her pen on the open page, and then called out through the open door. “Did we miss any steps, boys? Also, just in case it wasn’t clear, I’ll be calling you ‘boys’ until you prove yourselves to be gentlemen again.”

“Uh huh,” Stephen said weakly. “Seems like ya’ got all the steps…” 

“ _Wonderful_ ,” she said, snapping the book shut. “What do we say, Casper?”

“Down with the patriarchy!”

“That’s _right_ . Come along. Let’s see if my recipe works still? Less fighting. But we actually do get a _product_ at the end.” 

Franklin made a move to follow. She gave him a look that said he wasn’t getting any, and he stayed behind with the others.

Amelia snorted. “I like her.”

Casper hid his grin. “Me too.” 

They’d apologize later. The three boys - redeemed as gentlemen - made Nell a hot chocolate with too little chocolate and nearly burnt milk. 

“Well…” she sniffed, looking down into the cup, wrinkling her nose. “This is… nice.”

“We _tried_ ,” Stephen said. 

She smiled, shoulders relaxing. “You did. And without _fighting_!” 

Franklin rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “So… we got a little out of hand.”

“ _No_.” Nell’s hand fluttered to her chest. “I couldn’t tell!” 

Stephen snorted. “Least ya’ taught the kid a new word. Wasn’t gonna introduce that one for a few more years at least.”

“If he can say the sentiment,” Nell said, tilting her chin up, looking them over, “then he can _practice_ it.” 

“With a firecracker like you runnin’ the house? I’d say the groundwork’s pretty well-laid for that.” Franklin offered her a small smile.

Stephen pointed at the dismal excuse for a cup of hot chocolate still untouched in her hands. “How ‘bout I dump that, make tea instead? Then I was thinkin’, maybe we’d do dinner out tonight? Get outta yer hair for a few hours?”

“Why Misters McFadden, are you giving me the night off?”

They nodded in sync.

“Well.” A tiny smile curled her lips. “That sounds lovely, yes, thank you.” She handed the cup back to Stephen, who gave a small nod and turned to leave the room.

Franklin hung back. “So now that you ain’t workin’ tonight, think ya might wanna join us fer dinner?” Behind him, Stephen nearly dropped the cup in his hands. Franklin ignored it. “When’s the last time you got out, hmm?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on time meant for family.”

“Pssh!” Franklin threw up his hands. “Only reason you ain’t family already is ‘cause this numbskull didn’t propose back in ‘65, which he’s still kickin’ himself for, ain’t ya, Stretch?”

Stephen’s hands were shaking hard enough that he spilled hot chocolate on himself and he yelped, looking panickedly between the now-ruined cuff of his sleeve and the absolute nightmare that was unfolding five feet to his right. “We really gotta get into this _now?_ ”

Nell got to her feet, cheeks slightly pink, and smoothed out her apron. “Much as I enjoy torturing your brother with you, Franklin, I actually would prefer a quiet night to myself.” She moved towards the door, took the half-empty cup from Stephen’s hands. “If you leave that with me before you go out, I’ll see if I can salvage it,” she said, pointing to his suit sleeve. “And I _will_ take that tea. You can bring them both to my room when it’s ready.”

As she left the room, Franklin whistled low. “S’quite a woman.”

Ears bright red, Stephen glared at his baby brother. “Thank you so much for your assessment, Franklin.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“Yeah, well _quit_ sayin’ it, will ya? Jesus.”

Amelia watched them fondly. “Your Uncle Stephen was all hard lines and angles. And you’d started to soften him. But as my husband would say; you can’t mold cement.”

Casper gave her a look. 

“Some people, Casper, are beyond help. It’s a hard reality, but a reality nonetheless. They make themselves completely impenetrable to love and hope and help and the World beyond their scope. Stephen grew up without much love or light. He was made up of fury and ash. His business was knocking others down. But… he wasn’t entirely hardened. He’d just been… _molded_ into angles. Like I said. You can’t mold cement.” She snapped her fingers, and they were in the empty office for a moment. Amelia gestured Casper closer, opening up one of the bottom drawers. “Your other Uncle’s had buttons. But your Uncle Stephen? He had _money_. Enough to give every so often. Even before you were around. But more and more as you shaped him.”

VOTES FOR WOMEN stared up at him from the face of a pamphlet. 

“Like I said,” said Amelia. “You can’t mold cement. And lucky for that child, he was very, very good with _clay_. Even if it was stale beyond its years.” 

Casper shrugged. “It was probably… for business.”

“Could have been,” she said, snapping the drawer closed. “Or it could have been that a long, long time ago, he saw the way the women in the house were treated, and he wanted to be better. With his brothers. With himself. He always _tried_. His trying just evolved.” She stepped forward and looked into the hall, down a few doors where the child's room would be. 

"My husband and I, before I left, fought for causes before Kat. But after she was born? We fought harder than we ever had. We wanted the world she grew into to be better than what was around us. The world outside of her house and her town. It's a shift that defines you as a parent. The want for them to know a better world. To one day fight for that themselves. And your Uncle Stephen… He began looking beyond. The world he saw outside wasn't right in many ways, and he wanted you to…" 

Amelia stopped herself, as if she'd gone too far, noticing the ghost in front of her staring, listening to her speech with wide, breathless eyes. She smiled and shook her head. "Sorry, dear. Off track there a moment."

"But-" He seemed to wake up, too.

She smoothed her skirt, reaching out with her hand. “Anyway. One last memory for the week. Shall we?” 

He took her hand. 

The world around them faded. For a bare moment. When it returned, they were in the library. Casper lying on the floor in his pajamas by the fireplace, coloring. Franklin was in a wingback, reading through his latest script. Stephen was growling something at the newspaper. Samuel was sitting on a chair by the fire, book in hand. 

A log crackled, startling the adults enough for Stephen to look at his pocket watch, blinking at the time. “Cas’.”

Casper looked over his shoulder crayon stalling. 

“Bedtime.” 

“Another five-”

“ _Bedtime_ , Cas.”

“K.” He got up without any more fight, picking up his crayons carefully, paper hugged to his chest. He said goodnight to each of the Uncle’s in turn. Sammy squeezed his shoulder. Franklin drew him in tight with a loud kiss to the top of his curls. 

He went to Stephen’s chair last. “Here,” he said, handing over the paper. “It’s us!” 

“Is it?” Stephen stuck his cigar between his teeth, taking the paper from the boy. He squinted. “Reason my nose is half the size of my body.”

“Nooo…?” said Casper, carefully. 

“I like it!” Franklin said, peeking over. “Looks _distinguished_.”

“That’s because he drew you two _normal_.”

His nephew reached over. “You are! An’ look, we’re holding hands!”

“I see that, too.”

“So I don’t get taken to the circus!”

Stephen snorted. “Thanks, kid. Another for the wall.” He put the picture to the side. “Right. You ready?”

Casper grinned, bouncing on his heels, holding onto the edge of the armrest. “Ready.”

Stephen looked over at his brothers wearily. He cast them a _don’t you dare say nothin’_ look, reached out, and ruffled the boys curls almost violently. The child shrieked out a giggle. 

“I get them all?”

“Yes!”

“Right. C’mere.” He drew the kid in for a hug, leaning across the arm of his chair. “I’ll come check on ya’ in a few, alright?”

“Okay!” The kid went running off through the library doors and up the steps. 

Franklin blinked at him. “The hell was _that_!”

“None’a your business.”

Samuel leaned closer, letting out a sing-song, “C’mon, Stephen…!”

Their elder brother rolled his eyes, snatching up his newspaper again. “S’a thing we do. Keeps the nightmares from comin’ up. Or whatever.”

“The nightm-” Franklin’s brow furrowed and then smoothed, eyes wide. “Shit! _Nightmares_! How’s he doin’ with those?”

Stephen snapped the newspaper open. “He doesn’t get them no more.”

Samuel squinted. “He doesn’t- He used to _wander the house_.”

“I know.”

“Kid could barely get a word out!”

“I know.”

“An’ you just-”

“We had a talk,” said Stephen. “We figured it out. S’all ya gotta know.” 

Franklin and Samuel watched him another moment. They looked at one another. Smiled. 

“Right,” said Franklin, nodding. “All we gotta know.” 

"Told you they noticed the two of you," said Amelia to Casper from the back of the room.

"If it's even real," said Casper weakly, ignoring the phantom feeling of hands brushing over his head.

* * *

.

.

.

The Uncles left two days later with promises to be back for Christmas.

* * *

When the next memory formed, it was bright mid-morning, and the grounds were in the full bloom of late summer. As they floated through the foyer, the memory of Ms. Danvers rushed past them, raising her skirts as she climbed the stairs. Casper twisted around, watching. “Where’s she going in such a hurry?”

Amelia gestured at the stairs. “I suppose we could go and see,” she said, though he’d already flown off after the housekeeper.

He was right on her heels as the woman opened a door without knocking. “Stephen Archibald McFadden!”

Through the open door, they watched his Uncle drop the phone receiver, clutching his chest. “Jesus, Nell! What??”

“What, pray tell, was your objection to Miss Flora?” she asked sharply, hands on her hips.

Stephen smoothed out his vest. “Wasn’t a good fit.”

“That’s what you said about Miss Annabelle,” she said. “And Miss Maisie _and_ Miss Josephine. Friendship only has so many tutors, Stephen, and Casper just turned 5. He has to start his education and you _have_ to pick either a tutor or send him to a boarding school.”

“Do I really, though?” He pushed the chair back from the desk with a sigh. “Can’t you just teach ‘im?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, because on top of everything else I already do, I absolutely have time for that.”

“There, see? Problem solved.” He kicked both feet up onto the desk, flashed her a smile. 

With a huff, she stomped closer and swept an arm across the desk. His feet dropped back to the floor with a _thunk_. “You’re impossible. At this rate you might as well just send him to the school in town.”

The withering scowl he’d been directing her way faded. “The what?”

“All I’m saying is that I’m going to have to start running ads in the next town over at this rate-”

“No, no, hang on.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes unfocussed. “That’s… yeah. _Yeah_.”

“Oh, what’s gotten in your head now?”

He sprang to his feet, rounding the desk with renewed energy. He stopped short in front of her so suddenly she jolted back, but he merely reached out to grasp her hand, raise it to his lips. “Nell, you’re a _genius_ ,” he said, releasing her and continuing out the door. “I’ll be back!”

“Where are you- Stephen!” she called after him down the hall. “At least take your hat and coat!” Another huff, hands back on her hips. “Honestly. Whole town thinks we’re feral up here, and I don’t blame them!” She raised her voice, but he was already long gone.

Casper flew to the nearest window that overlooked the driveway, expecting to see a continuation of the memory, but instead spotted two figures moving down the lane into town instead of one. “Can I?” he asked, looking back towards Amelia. When she nodded, he hurried to catch up with them.

The day was bright, the leaves on the trees just starting to turn yellow. The boy skipped, hopped, and climbed rocks along the path, all while his Uncle (hat and coat not forgotten) ambled behind him. 

“What do you think it’ll be like?” five-year-old Casper asked, ducking down to pick up a stick.

“Not sure, bulbhead.”

“But didn’t you go to school?”

“School I went to was pretty different from this.”

“How come?”

“‘Cause we all _lived_ at school.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Was that fun?”

Stephen shrugged. “Occasionally.”

“Do you think this school will be fun?”

“Maybe.”

“You said there’ll be other kids there?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Then it’ll _definitely_ be fun.”

“Be nice to have somebody other than this old man to play with, right?”

“You’re not old.”

“Tell that to my back.”

Over the crest of the hill, the Friendship Schoolhouse came into sight and the boy stopped skipping. Stopped moving entirely. His Uncle came up beside him and Little Casper immediately reached out to grasp the tall man’s pant leg.

“What’s up, short stuff?”

In the grass in front of the simple, whitewashed building, boys and girls chased each other, laughing and shouting and waving goodbye to retreating adults.

The boy’s grip tightened. “There sure are a lot of ‘em,” he said quietly.

“Most’a the kids in town, yeah.”

“Maybe… maybe I could start tomorrow?”

“What?”

Little Casper took a step back. “That’d be ok, right?”

“They’re expectin’ ya’ today.”

“But-”

Then the long spider legs were folding and Stephen was kneeling so they were closer to eye-level. “If ya’ wait ‘til tomorrow, then tomorrow’s gonna be just as hard.”

The boy swallowed thickly, looked past the man to the gaggle of children down the hill. “But what if they don’t like me?”

“Then to hell with ‘em.” 

Little Casper choked back a laugh, turning back to his Uncle. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. School’s for learning. Everything else is just extra.”

The boy frowned, looked warily over his Uncle’s shoulder again.

Stephen let out a breath, shaking his head. “Look, if it helps...any of those ankle-biters down there gives you any guff you just send ‘em my way, all right?”

“And you’ll call Uncle Franklin to come thrash ‘em?”

The man balked, for a split second before the child dissolved into giggles and a curious mix of anger and delight settled upon his features. “Oh, ya’ think yer funny, huh? Huh?” Long fingers found their way to the boy’s sides and the giggles became belly laughs as little Casper tried to wriggle away. “We got a comedian in the family, is that it?”

Floating above them, the spirit watched, enraptured. 

The moment calmed, and the man smoothed out the boy’s shirt. “All right, Mr. Thinks-He’s-So-Funny, you ready to get in there?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Little Casper attempted to smooth his hair without much success.

“Good. Now get goin’ before yer teacher starts to won-” Stephen’s sentence was cut short by the boy barreling forward, throwing both arms around his neck, nearly knocking him off balance.

“Thanks, Uncle Stephen,” came the soft voice from against his shoulder.

The man raised a hand, patted the boy’s back. “Yeah yeah. I’ll be back to walk you home when it’s done, okay?”

“Kay!” With that, the boy resumed his skipping and the memory faded.

Time passed around the little building. Children played outside. At one point, a bell rang, and Casper saw a little memory of himself running with a small group of boys and girls on the large boulders beside the building, waving at boats and sliding back down to look at spiders and ants crawling beneath. A game of red rover started right after. 

Casper stood with Amelia, looking at the little schoolhouse. 

“I remember this place…” he said, softly. “It’s still in town. Kat and I pass it when she goes to school. They have kindergarten here.”

“Not back then,” Amelia said. “Back then, it was the schoolhouse. For every child. There were days for each age, and your Uncle sent you.”

“... why?”

“He thought it would be good for you.” She said. “And he was right. It’s why I never sent Kat to a private school or kept her home with me. I wanted Kat with kids like her. _Grounded_ kids. And he wanted the same thing for you. He wanted you to socialize. To make friends.” 

As they watched, the sun in the sky changed positions, the shadows shifted and suddenly there were a gaggle of adults clustering in the school yard. 

Or rather-

-a gaggle of _women._

And his uncle, standing slightly apart and towering over everyone else, hands stuffed in his pockets. The women were talking among themselves, occasionally glancing his way. After a moment, one broke away from the group, approached him.

“Don’t believe we’ve seen you at pickup before,” she said, smiling.

He shifted in the grass, leaning slightly away. “Uh, no. Kid just started today.”

“Boy or girl?”

Stephen looked for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else as he said, “Boy.”

“Oh how wonderful! My Benji has been complaining that there aren’t enough boys to play with, and with four older sisters, I can’t say I blame him.”

“Four…? Jesus.” He stopped, realizing. “I-I didn’t mean that, I-”

“You sound like my husband. ‘Too many hens in this house’ he says.” The woman laughed. “We don’t often see fathers at pickup…” She trailed off, looking him up and down, a realization dawning on her face. “Oh! But you must be Master McFadden. I’m so sorry, of course we read all about your wife in the paper.” She bowed her head. “Forgive me for bringing up such an unpleasant subject.”

If Stephen had looked uncomfortable before, he seemed in complete agony then. 

It was at that moment that the school doors burst open, and Stephen looked over at them like the pearly gates themselves had been dropped down to Earth. Children pooled out, shouting and screaming, holding books and objects in their hands. The ghost watching saw himself at the back of the pack, chatting away excitedly with another little boy with dark hair. The memory of Casper looked around and saw Stephen, grabbing the other child by the arm to tug him over.

“Uncle Stephen! This is Benji! He likes trains, too!”

The woman turned towards Stephen. “Oh! You’re his-”

“M’just the Uncle,” he managed to get out. “My brothah’s away.”

“I have three Uncle’s!” Casper piped up helpfully. “Only two are in Chicago! Uncle Stephen stays here! He’s from Boston. That’s why he sounds funny.”

Stephen looked like he wanted to sink through the ground. 

“Is he!” The woman grinned. “And I see you found my son!”

“We sat next to each other,” said Benji. “Mom, can Casper come over sometime!” 

“It’s fine with me.” She looked over at Stephen, who floundered at the response.

“Uh,” said Stephen. “S’fine.”

“Uncle Stephen is new at this,” said the five year old, leaving Benji’s side to lean against his Uncle’s long legs. “He’s learning.” 

“Well, he’s doing an excellent job, I’m sure.”

“He is!” Casper agreed. “He remembers to feed me an’ everything!”

Stephen looked like he wanted the ocean to come up and drag him away. 

Benji’s mother held back a laugh, nodding. “That’s very important.” She looked back up at Stephen. “I’m Clarice, by the way.”

“Stephen.” He shook her hand, seeming to regain some of himself back, relaxing. “And _this_ helion is Casper.” 

“Hi!” Casper waved. 

They parted ways after that, Casper running ahead, jumping up on the stone walls lining the path while Stephen barked orders of _don’t even start_ and _you fall off I’m not draggin’ your ass back_ until Casper finally got bored enough to wander back beside him. “School was fun!”

“Told you so. And it kept you out of my hair for a while. House was quiet without someone tryin’ ta bust down the walls.”

Casper laughed, bouncing on his heels. He remembered something, pausing on the walkway. “Oh! Wait!”

“We don’t got all day, short stuff.”

Casper fumbled with the stack of books in his small hands, plucking the little object he’d been holding off the top. “I made this for you!”

Stephen stopped walking. He squinted down over his nose. “You made me a hand?”

“It’s a hand _print_ ,” Casper explained, patiently. “Ms. Teacher says that you make’em to show how much you grow! So this is me when I’m five! And when I’m a million like you I’ll get bigger.”

“I’m _42_.”

“That’s close!” 

“You lookin’ for me to toss you out to sea or somethin’?”

Casper rolled his eyes. “You’re supposed to keep it! And look, I wrote my name _and_ my age on the back. I’m not great at spelling yet but Ms. Teacher says I’ve got _potential_.”

“Polite way to say she can’t read it.”

“Just _look_ , Uncle Stephen!”

He flicked Casper’s brow, turning it over. 

C A S P E R

A G E F I V

FOR UNCL STEVIN

“Your hand is way bigger,” Casper was saying, looking down at his own, giving the five fingers a wiggle. “Do you think mine will be that big? Or that I’ll be as tall as you? I was telling Benji about how tall you are! I said that sometimes you hit lights with your head and that someday I might be as tall as you, and he didn’t believe me until he saw you and-” He stopped, realizing he was alone. He turned around. “Uncle Stephen!”

The man stared down at the handprint. 

“ _Uncle Stephen!_ ”

“Huh?” He looked up from the handprint. “Whazzit, bulbhead?”

“I’m _hungry_!” Casper crossed his arms. 

Stephen blinked a little numbly, still regaining his wits. His thumb moved back and forth across the token in his hand. 

“ _Uncle Stephen!_ ” Casper ran behind him, giving his legs a _shove_ . “You’ve gotta _move_!”

His Uncle shook his head, scowl snapping back in place. “Jeez. I’m movin’. Try that again and you ain’t gettin nothin’.” He started to walk again, and Casper (who’d been pressing his hands against the backs of his legs) nearly fell forward. “Then Franklin can yell at me when yer nothin’ but skin and bones.” 

“You would _not_!”

“I would. Now move it, bulbhead. Times a’wastin’.” 

Casper from behind watched the scene with huge eyes. “That’s-”

“Yes,” said Amelia. 

“From my _playroom_!”

“Yes,” said Amelia again, nodding. “My daughter set it up for you.” She smiled down at Casper. “I can only imagine what would have happened if she’d bothered to look at the back.” 

* * *

“The hell’re ya doin’ here, Doc?” Shoulders arched, breathing unsteady, Stretch looked like a cornered animal. Though the desire to take off was written clearly across his face, the ghost forced himself to float directly in the middle of the hallway instead. Fists clenched at his sides, he kept his eyes on the living man who was taking deliberate, careful steps towards him.

“I think you and I both know why I’m here,” Harvey said, stopping with about a yard still between them. “What happened downstairs-”

“Nothin’ happened downstairs!” Violet eyes flashed, and he reeled back, hand on his temple. “Shut _up_!” he hissed. 

“Stretch, listen to me, I think a trauma is manifesting itself in the form of a-”

“I ain’t got time for yer theories, today,” the ghost spat. “Got enough’a my own shit ta deal with.” He winced again, moved back to the wall, muttering, “I can handle this. Just shut up and lemme get rid of ‘im.”

“ _Him_?”

Stretch fell silent. 

James frowned. He was a man of science, but he also knew when to go with his gut, and at that moment his gut was telling him that his patient wasn’t going to be the one leading to any answers. He took a step closer. “Who's _him_?"

"No one."

"You sure?"

The sconce above them began to stutter again. Light pulsed.

"I’d like to talk to Stephen.”

As the sound of the name, the ghost’s head snapped up. “Dunno what’cher talkin’ about,” he growled. 

“He’s - _you’ve_ \- been here since those pictures came out.”

“ _No_.”

“Since we brought up his name… since we brought up _Casper_ -”

Stretch snarled again, bucking under the weight of something unseen. His eyes strained closed, teeth gritted. In the doorway, Harvey could only watch, hands curled around the little orb that was the boy, pulsing like a cool presence between his fingers. 

He stepped forward.

“You don't know what you're talkin' about, doc. I'm-" Whatever he was going to say was cut off by something Harvey couldn't see. Stretch swiveled, looking behind him. He dragged in a sharp _whoosh_ of hair, folding over, eyes closed. " _Shut up_ .” The ghost hissed the words like a curse, curling his fists about his temples. It took Harvey a moment to realize that the words weren't for him. They were for someone unseen. Someone all around. " _Sh_ _ut up, shut up, shut up_ . You don’t know- I ain’t- _stop_ …” 

Harvey pulled the Orb of Casper closer. “You’re fighting him. It won’t work.”

There was no denial left. No room in a head full of voices. “I can get rid’a him.” Stretch was pressed against the wall now, pulling in sharp, deep breaths. “I _can_.” 

“Stretch-”

“I’m _gonna_ get rid’a him,” the ghost snarled. 

Harvey swallowed. “I don’t think you’re supposed to.”

“An’ I don’t care what you think,” came the hissed reply.

“If I could just talk to Stephen-”

Stretch let out a growl and another sconce shattered. Harvey flinched, but didn’t step back. The orb in his hand pulsed more rapidly.

“Why can’t I speak to him? He’s _you_ , Stretch. What do you think he’s going to say that you don’t want me to hear?” Harvey paused. “Unless there’s something you don’t _want_ him to say.”

“ _You can't talk to him_."

“But does he want to talk to _me_?” 

The ghost spun on him so quickly, he staggered back. “He ain’t got _shit_ ta say ta _anyone!_ ” he spat, voice all venom. “He-” He was knocked to the floor by seemingly nothing. “No!” An invisible hand tossed him into one wall, then another. Eyes wide, Harvey clutched the orb in both hands. All around them, the lights that hadn’t burst pulsed in time with the little sphere.

Stretch was back on the floor, curled in on himself, panting. The flickering lights calmed. That battle, as it were, was apparently over. But who the winner was, the therapist didn’t know. He moved slowly closer, navigating around the broken glass, crouching down. He kept quiet, watching.

Slowly the ghost raised his head, rubbing his temple. “Jesus, he’s like a feral cat.” The violet eyes that met Harvey’s held a warmth he’d never seen before. “Sorry ‘bout that, Doc." He extended his hand. "Nice ta finally meet ya.”


	12. The Doctor and the Patient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A therapist begins a dialogue, a boy goes sledding, a partnership is forged, and the unknown must be found.

James Harvey shook Stephen McFadden’s hand. It was the same hand that had lifted him into the air once or twice. The same hand that he’d seen pushing and shoving and dragging a small child about. 

Now, it clutched his with a purpose, shaking his back with an almost practiced confidence. Despite the coolness of the ghost, his palm felt warm. “I wish we could’ve met under better circumstances,” Harvey said.

“You an’ me both, Doc.” The ghost before him was so subtly different that the therapist was surprised at how much he noticed it. The warmth in the eyes, a softness around the jaw, a smile that was tired instead of cruel. “Dunno how long we’ve got, so we’d better get down to business.” The specter moved to the nearest door and pushed it open. “Step into my office.”

“ _Your_ office?” Harvey repeated, following the ghost into the room, looking around at the sheet-shrouded furniture. “My daughter was under the impression that this belonged to Casper’s father.” In his hand, the orb was quiet.

“S’cause she only sees what she wants to,” Stephen said. He grabbed the sheet that lay over the desk and yanked it away, dust rising up around him. “S’easier that way.” The chair creaked as he pulled it out, settled in it like he belonged there. “But it’s mine. My bastard of a brother had the library, and the lab down in the basement. When he was around.” He gestured at the chair across from him.

“So he was absent for more than just that one year after his wife died.” James took the offered seat. “And you stayed while he was gone.”

“Course I did.” Stephen pulled out the top drawer, frowned, and shut it again. 

“For how long?”

“For as long as I could.” The next drawer was opened, and then closed with the same frown.

“For Casper’s whole life?”

“For as long as I _could_ ,” Stephen said again. Third drawer - open, frown, shut.

“You said we didn’t have a lot of time.” Harvey leaned on the armrest of his chair. “Is it really a good idea to be giving vague answers right now?”

The ghost winced. “He’s still back there, fightin’ like hell, tryin’ ta get me ta keep my mouth shut. So I gotta be careful if I’m gonna find what I need.”

“What is it you need? Maybe I could help.”

“That’s the problem - out here, my memories - everything gets foggy.” 

“Out here?” 

“Where Casper _ain’t_ , I mean. Buried. Lost. Waitin’. Watchin’ memories. But out here-” His brow furrowed, and he snapped a drawer shut, rooting through another. “S’less solid out here. Don’t help that half’a me is fightin’ like a rabid dog.” 

“So Casper…” Harvey opened his hands enough for the light from the orb to spill through his fingers. Smoke edged across the desk, whisping and then fading away. 

The ghost looked up, breath hitching in his throat. “Jesus… lookit ‘im. What’s _left_ of ‘im.” His fingers flexed nervously in his lap, gaze fixed on the little ball of light. “You, uh, you think I could…” He reached out, pulled back, repeated the motion.

Harvey hesitated, looking between the orb and the ghost. Then he nodded, offered it up across the desk.

Stephen’s hand was shaking as he stretched it out to close the space between them, got close enough to touch the vapor swirling around it before he yanked it back, hissing. “Oh no you don’t.” He shut his eyes, shook his head, then opened them again. “Looks like it’s not in the cards tonight, Doc. Least I know we didn’t lose our possessive streak.”

Harvey pulled the orb back into his lap. “Stretch was trying to take control again?”

“Yeah. Didn’t like the idea’a me touching ‘his kid’.” The ghost let out a derisive snort. “First thing he’s said that sounded like me.”

James let that settle a moment, leaning back in his chair. “That’s an interesting choice of words.”

“What is?”

“He - and _you_ \- referring to Casper as ‘his’.”

“Why shouldn’t we? He was.” Stephen pulled another drawer open and his expression softened. “Holy hell.” He reached inside and came back up with a handful of photographs. Slowly he flipped through them, laying them out one by one on the desk. “Taught ‘im ta ride his bike.” James leaned forward to look at the photo of the boy with the bandaged arm on the bicycle. “Taught ‘im ta swim - _hated_ that, but when ya live on the water…” Another picture of the same boy, roughly the same age, in a one-piece bathing costume coming in from the water. “Taught ‘im ta tie a tie - though he never kept it on for more than five minutes.” A photo of the boy looking like he’d rather be doing anything other than posing for a photo, standing in a pressed suit and shined shoes.

James wondered if Kat had seen them. “Seems like you were...very present in his life.”

Stephen shrugged. “Somebody had ta be.” He pushed away from the desk, moved to pull a sheet off what turned out to be a tall filing cabinet. 

“Because his father wasn’t around.”

“Yeah. That was how it started, at least.”

“How it… started?”

Stephen either ignored the question or didn’t hear the man sitting in front of the desk, drawing his hand down the front of the filing cabinet instead before pulling the bottom drawer open. His eyes softened again, dragging his fingers along the papers inside. “This was _his_ drawer.” 

Harvey leaned forward. “Casper’s?”

“Kid couldn’t reach the ones up here. An’ my damn knees had it in for me since I was 30. Busted ‘em runnin’ after the kid as much as I did.” He plucked at a random paper corner, giving it a tug, and a drawing of what looked like a heart monitor was suddenly in the ghosts hands. 

The informal session had begun whether the ghost planned it or not. Harvey looked around, almost hoping that there’d be a spare sheet of paper or a notebook he could use, like he did for the trio, but mournfully found nothing. Instead, he leaned closer to the desk, adjusting his glasses with his free hand. “So even though this was _your_ space, he had a place in it,” James twisted in his seat, watching the ghost’s back. “A drawer all to himself.” His eyes kept moving, settling on another rectangular shape covered in cloth. “His own desk?”

“Couldn’t get any work done otherwise,” Stephen answered, slipping a different sheet of paper from the file. “Kid was always underfoot, or climbin’ all over me. ‘Specially when he was little. The desk worked like a charm. He could stick close and I could actually _work._ ” He straightened up, brought the paper to the desk. “Quite the little artist, wasn’t he?” 

The ghost's voice held something of a sense of pride that Harvey had never heard before. The piece of paper he’d laid out was thicker stock, yellowed with age but distinctly colorful. Color from what looked like crayons. Crayons that had crafted figures that, while rudimentary, were instantly recognizable. 

A small figure in blue, with yellow hair, floating above a scribbled field of green. One stick arm hung at his side.

The other reached up.

Joined a brown line.

That connected to an impossibly tall brown figure with violet eyes and a nose that looked like a toucan’s beak.

Harvey couldn’t help the tiny chuckle that slipped out. “Very, um, true to life.”

Instead of the quick, rough, defensive retorts he was used to, the ghost coughed out a laugh and nodded. “Nothin’ like a kid ta keep ya humble, right, Doc?”

James’ fingers were practically itching for a pen. “You mind if I look around with you?” he asked.

“Knock yourself out.”

The therapist tucked the orb of Casper into the pocket of his cardigan and stood, rounding the desk to poke in the drawers that had proven useless to Stephen. They were not quite as useless to _him_ , as the very top drawer presented him with a leather-bound ledger that, when he cracked it open, revealed blank pages towards the end, and a fountain pen that still had ink. He crossed back to his seat and began writing quickly.

Stephen was back at the filing cabinets, milling through the papers. He drew out a stack, coming to one towards the middle. “Aw, look at this.” Stephen turned the picture at the top of the stack around so Harvey could see. 

It was another one of the odd heart monitors, drawn in red crayon. “… what?”

“Kid used to copy me at work,” he explained. 

Harvey walked over and took the picture carefully, holding it up. “What did you do? For work, I mean.”

“Stock market,” Stephen explained. He opened up a drawer closer to the top, showing Harvey the folded newspapers and stock reports out of Boston. “My job was makin’ my clients rich by screwin’ others out’a everythin’ they owned. Blood in the water sort’a profession.”

“Seems like it suited you.”

“It did. Kid barely understood it, but he tried.”

“My daughter was the same way when she was little,” Harvey said, smiling as the pen flew across the page. “Used to make her mother and I lay on the couch while she asked us questions about our feelings.”

“And now she’s tryin’ her hand at amateur detective work.” Stephen spotted the whiskey bottle on the floor and picked it up. He brushed the dust off and smiled, floating with it back over to the desk. “Smart kid, ya’ got there, doc. Your Kat.”

Harvey smiled, shaking his head. “She is. Very. And _stubborn_ , just like her mother was. It’s a good combination.”

“Got us this far,” Stephen said, finding glasses in a bottom drawer of the desk. “Got farther than we ever could.”

The doctor nodded. “It’s odd. Hearing you say that. Especially with Stretch’s voice. He was against this all from the beginning. He and Kat clashed a lot-”

“We’re the _same_ doc. Remember that. Him an’ me? We’re the same. An’ I can tell ya’ that he wasn’t angry at your girl. The clashin’ he’s been doin’ lately? That ain’t raw anger. S’a cocktail-” He cut himself off a moment, wincing. “Doesn’t like me talkin’ about it.”

“Stretch?”

“Yeah. Clawin’ like a cat.” He looked back at the therapist. “He was afraid’a your girl. More than anyone he’s been afraid of in a long time. Soon as she startin’ pokin her nose around? That ain’t pure anger, doc. That’s fear.”

The words settled around Harvey. 

“An’ if there was anger,” Stephen continued, “an’ there still _is_ , it ain’t at her.” 

“At who then?”

He popped the top off of the whiskey and poured a fifth in each glass, slid one in Harvey’s direction. “Ain’t _that_ the question of the day.”

James put his pen down, looked at the glass. The whole moment seemed powered by muscle memory - a man at his desk, conducting business, serving his guest. He picked it up. “Well, here’s to getting some answers then.” 

“To answers,” said the ghost. 

* * *

Casper watched himself go towards the closed office door. There was the sound of someone speaking just behind it. The boy reached for the doorknob, but hesitated, pulling away. 

“What’s he doing?” Casper asked, watching the boy back carefully away before turning and walking down the hall.

“You’d signed a contract,” Amelia said. “Remember?”

And Casper did. It was so many memories ago that he’d forgotten. But it was still there; a hazy thought in his peripherals. 

“You were a good boy,” said Amelia. “And you wanted to make your Uncle happy. So you respected the rules he’d set up as best as you could.”

“But it was just a stupid, mean contract.”

“Not to you it wasn’t. You were five, and these little things wound up being a bedrock. So you heard him on the phone, and your first thought was that contract, and what you’d promised, and how you didn’t want to disappoint him. So you walked away.”

“To where?”

Time flashed by. The hands on the clock in the hall were whisked forward. The light outside turned a lighter blue, and then pink, and red, and then a dark, velvet. 

“Amelia?”

Amelia put a finger over her lips and pointed to the door. 

Stephen came out of his office, rubbing his tired eyes. He loosened his tie, finally letting his shoulders slump. He passed the two ghosts in the hall, moving towards the playroom. “Casper. Come on, short stuff, it’s almost time for-” He paused before leaning in farther. “Casper?” 

Nothing. 

Casper watched the man frown, moving away and towards the bedroom farther down the hall. 

He repeated the process there. 

Nothing. 

“There is _nothing_ like this feeling,” Amelia said. 

“What feeling…”

“Before I left, our family went on a trip to the Grand Canyon, and while we were there, we lost Kat. It was only for five minutes. She’d wandered off to look at some lizards. But I swear, in those moments, James and I could have dropped dead then.” She shook her head, hand fluttering to her chest. “ _Nothing_ like it.”

“But I’m not _lost_.”

“But he didn’t know.” She waved him on, keeping pace with the man who was moving faster through the hallways towards the foyer steps. He passed a maid on the way, stopping her to ask, “have you seen Casper?”

She shook her head, apologizing before going on her way. 

He moved faster. 

Taking the stairs two at a time, he was almost running by the time he got to the kitchen. Both Ms. Danvers and the chef looked up when he entered, and the housekeeper raised an eyebrow. “Stephen?”

Violet eyes roved the room. “Where’s Casper?”

“I haven’t seen him since lunch,” she said, wiping her hands on a rag. “I assumed he was up in the office with you.”

He shook his head and something bloomed across his face that the ghost had never seen before-

Fear.

He spun on his heel and ran from the room with the woman close behind.

“I’m sure he’s around,” Nell said, doing her best to keep up with him, voice hitching. “Stephen, slow down!”

“He’s always underfoot. _Always_.”

“It’s a big house!”

“Cas- _PER_ !” He called again down another empty hall. “ _Shit shit shit_.”

“Stephen!”

“He’s not _here_ .” He loosened his tie again, breaths coming out too quickly. “He’s always _here_.”

“Stephen. Stephen, _stop_ .” She grabbed his arm, pulling him to a pause in the middle of the foyer. The man’s face was pale. His hands were shaking. Every third breath was a wheeze. “ _Breathe_ , Stephen. He’s _here_.”

“He’s _not_.”

“ _Stephen_ -”

“Nell, I need to-” 

And that was when one of the maids saw them. A small, fair haired woman with sharp, green eyes. “Mr. McFadden?”

He was busy twisting his fists against his eyes. 

Ms. Danvers touched his arms, turning to the maid. “Have you seen Casper?”

“Of course,” she nodded. 

His fists dropped. “ _Where_?”

She jerked back. “Oh. Um… he went out at noon. Had his sled and everything-” 

“ _Noon_ ?” Nell snapped at the younger woman, who shrank away from the harsh gaze. “That was _eight_ hours ago!”

Stephen had already bolted for the door.

Walking backwards after him, the housekeeper barked out, “Tell Mrs. Dibbs to boil enough water for a bath - now!” And then she, too, was running.

Amelia didn’t need to tell Casper to follow. He was already flying ahead after the memories.

The grounds were dark but for the light spilling from the open back door and the shadow of his uncle ran long against the snow. From the back porch he scanned the horizon, squinting out at the blackness. “Cas- _PER!_ ”

When only the wind replied, he stepped off the porch. The snow was a least a foot deep, and the ghost watched the man struggle to run as he made for the hills.

* * *

Harvey didn’t know how he’d expected his day to go. He hadn’t expected the day before to end with a systematic burning of a child’s treasured memories, he hadn’t expected the morning to begin with a disappearance of said child, and he hadn’t expected to be sitting across from the ghost who had tormented and ignored and ridiculed him, drinking fine whiskey. 

He hadn’t expected that ghost to also now be occupied by the memories of his former self. 

But at least the whiskey was good. 

Harvey raised his glass, then brought it to his lips. He blinked as the first sip went down. “Oh my god. That’s incredible.”

“It _should_ be. I only bought the good stuff, and aged a hundred extra years?” Stephen took a sip, hummed. “Oh yeah. _That’s_ even better than I remember.” He sighed and leaned back in the chair. It creaked under the weight he created for it. “A lot of time was spent here, in this office when I first got here. Belonged to my Pa’ before I took it over.”

“Your father-”

“Mmm.” Stephen took another sip. His eyes darkened. “Bastard of a man.”

Harvey set down his glass, reaching for his pen. He stalled, hovering above the paper. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“You kiddin’? Other half of me is tryin’ ta’ keep me from sayin’ all this shit.” He grinned. “Don’t know how much time we got, but whatever I can give, I’ll try. Enough to piss him-” He flinched again, turning his head to an invisible figure just out of Harvey’s sight. “ _It’s his fuckin’ job. Not like you tell’m anything anyway. Maybe he can- We need ta’ get Casper-_ ” he flinched again, drawing away with a snarl. 

“Stretch?”

He nodded stiffly. “Doesn’t want ya’ to know nothin’. Actin’ like he don’t want the kid back.” His hand trembled on the whiskey glass. 

“But you think he does.”

“Again, Doc, he’s _me._ Just like, a fraction of me. The _least_ charming fraction, too.”

“Won’t argue with that.” Harvey took another sip. “So while I’ve got you, I suppose we should start at the beginning.”

“Good’a place as any.”

The therapist put the glass down and picked up his pen again. “What made you want to stay longer? After the year was over and your brothers left.”

Stephen swirled what was left of the whiskey in his tumbler. “Straight to the touchy-feeling stuff, huh?”

“Indulge me.”

The ghost took the last sip, set the glass down. “When I made the decision, I hadn’t actually thought about it before. The boys were gettin’ calls to go back to Chicago and it hit me then, that the kid was gonna be alone again. Couldn’t count on J.T. comin’ back - half the time we didn’t even know what country he was in.” He ran his index finger along the rim of the glass, watching it. “Thinkin’ about that; it didn’t sit right, ya know? Kid should have _somebody_. Even if that somebody’s a natsy bastard from a long line’a nasty bastards.”

“You’re talking about your father again.”

He nodded, then winced. “ _Stretch_ don’t want ya ta know, so make sure ya write this down, Doc - our Pa’ beat the shit out of me on a regular basis.”

“Just you?” James asked, pen flying over the page.

“Mostly me. ‘Cause I’d jump in and take it when he went after Franklin or Sammy. He didn’t like my smart mouth, so it was easy enough to distract ‘im when he went on a tear.” 

“What about J.T.?”

“Who, the golden boy? He learned early on that if he did the exact _opposite_ of what I did, he’d be just fine.” With a sneer, the ghost poured himself another fifth. “S’why I _left_ an’ _he_ got to live here rent free, rackin’ up debts with _my_ name still on the damn deed.”

“J.T. lived here, but didn’t own the property?”

“Don’t work like that. Or, at least it _didn’t_ , back then. Oldest got everything, even if they didn’t actually want it.” Stephen took a slow sip. “My Pa’ had sons, an’ was proud of it. I knew what I was inheretin’ by the time I could walk. And…” he tipped the glass, watching the whiskey move around inside the glass. “J.T. hated that. Bein’ second. Bein’ in the house compensated for that, I think… And…” he tipped the glass back, “havin’ Casper.”

Harvey paused, pen pressing to the paper. “Casper was… compensation?”

“In a way. He did what I didn’t. Tried ta’ make up for my failures. Make Pa’ proud. So.” he leaned forward in his seat. “He got hitched. Had a kid. A _boy_ , so got extra points for that.”

“God…” Harvey muttered.

Stephen lifted his glass again. “How things were. Not that Casper did it well..”

Harvey’s brow furrowed. “Sorry. He didn’t… _boy_ well?”

“Too sweet. Too friendly. Not hardened enough. And-”

“And?”

“And Casper wasn’t gonna be inheritin’ anythin’ beyond what J.T. made.”

“Wait-” Harvey tapped his pen against the pad. “He wasn’t inheriting?” He waved the pen around the room. 

“No.” Stephen shook his head. “Belonged to me. Would’a gone ta’ my brother’s equally if anythin’ happened ta’-” He winced again, his fingers moving to his temple. 

“Stretch?”

“No…” He winced again, dragging in a breath, taking a swig from the glass. “Just a headache. A fuzzy spot.”

“A memory.”

“A memory,” Stephen agreed. “Like I said - memories out here are _foggy_. Some spots are dark, even for me.” 

Harvey nodded and quickly wrote a few words down.

_Inheritance_

_Eldest child_

_Father’s expectations/previous abuse_

_Certain memories missing?_

“So- J.T.?”

“Yeah. J.T. wanted ta’ pass on a big legacy. Legacy was everythin’ to families like ours. An’ without an estate, he had his inventions, his work. Which he did, galavantin’ across the globe like he was fuckin’ Twain, instead’a bein’ home with his pregnant wife. An’ after the kid was born, an Em’ got sick…” He lifted his glass. “His job was done anyway. Got married. Had the kid. Pa’ could die proud of one’a us, at least. An’ J.T had a legacy ta’ build. Was the only thing that ever mattered to ‘im.”

Harvey made another note in the ledger. “So you and your brother didn’t get along?”

“Understatement of the fucking century.” He took a long swing of the whiskey. There was a mulled silence. He held the cup, tipping it from side to side again. 

Harvey watched him, drinking in the silence the same way the man before him drank his whiskey. “I just find it _odd_.”

“Mmm?”

“You and your _other_ brothers… you’re a unit. Looking at the three of you, I wouldn’t have ever guessed there was a missing link.” 

“You could call’m the ‘black sheep’, but reality is, our family had _three_ black sheep in a pack of wolves.”

Harvey jotted that down quickly. “So J.T. was the only one who took after your father, who lived up to his expectations.”

“The only one who _tried_ anyway. Funny thing, somebody breaks yer nose enough times, ya start to not care too much about their ‘expectations’.”

“So, while the three of you left, got jobs out of state, _he_ stayed in the house.”

“Rent free, no less. After Pa’ passed, I could’a taken it back, but what did I want it for? Far as I was concerned, golden boy could play house all he wanted, so long as he left me alone.” Stephen took another sip. “Problem was, he _didn’t_.”

“How do you mean?”

“Started small. Passive aggressive bullshit. Airin’ dirty laundry in the papers, ‘cause the press could _never_ get enough of ‘im. I could ignore that. I got a pretty thick hide.” He put the glass down and pointed at the ledger the doctor was hurriedly scribbling in. “But ya hit me in my pocketbook? Can’t let that go unanswered.”

Harvey looked up, waiting.

“Even before Em died, I was gettin’ hounded by debt collectors. After the funeral it only got worse. I couldn’t’ve stayed away even if I’d wanted to. Not if I wanted to avoid gettin’ run into the ground by the golden boy’s mismanagement of the estate. ‘Genius’ the papers used ta call ‘im. Genius, my ass.” He snatched the tumbler up again, and the next sip was faster.

“I’m sensing a lot of resentment here.”

“Very astute, Doc.”

“Sometimes it’s my job to state the obvious.”

“And we pay you for that?”

“Actually, now that you mention it…” Harvey moved to say something, but waved a hand, let it go. “So. You went to handle the finances. You didn’t want anything to do with Casper, yet.”

Stephen snorted. “I barely knew what to do with a kid. I was just there ta’ pick up J.T.’s mess. But his affect on the house? On everyone there, _especially_ that kid…” He shook his head and poured them both more whiskey.

“You saw him everywhere.” 

“My brother was a ghost long before he died. He _haunted_ that place.“ He lifted his head up towards the shadows in the corners. “Sometimes I think he still does.” 

The words triggered another wince, and Harvey moved his chair closer. “Another memory?”

Stephen nodded. “Like I said…” He winced again, touching his temple. “Memories are fuzzy.”

“Dark spots?”

“What?” he looked up. 

“Your brothers-” Harvey pointed towards the ceiling. “They’ve been dealing with these dark spots. These empty spaces in their memories that they can’t fill.”

“Probably because they don’t got nothin’ to tie them to it, yet.” He gestured to the pictures around him. The room. “It’s hard for me. I’ve watched the memories a million times, but every time, it’s like I gotta watch ‘em all over again. And every time, the end is always fresh. Always destroys me just the same.” 

Harvey’s pen stalled. “The end?”

Stephen shook his head, taking another swig of the drink. He looked like he was considering his words carefully. “When Casper was 5, I started readin’ him this book. It was my favorite when I was his age. _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_.”

“Jules Verne, right?”

Stephen raised his glass. “Book is about this man, Aronnax, tryin’ ta’ destroy this sea creature he knows is there. He ends up workin’ with this man, Captain Nemo. Classic asshole. But he had the boat, an’ the know-how. An’ Aronnax goes with’m. Starts off so simple. Two men on the open sea, tryin’ ta’ destroy some sort of unseen evil under the waters.” He swirled his glass around, whiskey moving in lazy turns around the glass. “Then, sometime later on, it turns Nemo ain’t such a saint himself. Sort of a monster, actually. An’ even when he ain’t around, he’s _there_. In the boat. In the ocean. Even when he leaves into the unknown at the end. He’s still there...” 

Harvey watched him, eyes fixed on the ghost. His pen stayed unmoving against the paper. 

“Before I got to the house, my brother was just some asshole. It’s how I knew’m. An’ I figured, goin’ there, that I’d clean up his mess, and that would be it. But the monster I was lookin’ for wasn’t the one I had ta’ worry about.” He swallowed. “I knew’m as a brother, but he was a father, too.” He lifted his glass, focusing hard on the ring it had left on the desk. “Like I said, Doc. He haunted that place. But he _especially_ haunted that kid. An’ at some point, I stopped worryin’ about the reason I’d gotten there an’ found a new one. Keepin’ away monsters for someone else. Keepin’ the waters steady.” He turned the glass in his hands. “Problem with that is, ya get used to a calm sea, an’ ya forget the monsters are still down there waitin’.” 

The pen was held tight enough in Harvey’s hand to leave marks. “Something happened.”

“Yeah…” said the ghost, voice tight. He laughed. It was a sardonic sound. “Ya’ know? It’s funny. End of the book, they don’t got a single clue what happens to Nemo. The real monster of the book, an’ they just lose track of ‘em. An’ no one knows what happens after that.” His hands shook. “I don’t remember what happened at the end. Memories are fuzzy. Too many dark spots. But I know that whatever happened is because I lost track’a monsters.” 

“The ending.” Harvey finally breathed out. “That’s what we’re looking for. To all of this. All we know is you stayed. But beyond that? We don’t have much.”

Stephen nodded slowly. He winced again. “ _Shut up, he needs ta’- stop sayin’ that!_ ”

“Stretch?”

The ghost’s hand closed tighter around his glass. “He keeps sayin’ he doesn’t need Casper back. Keeps forgettin’ that we’re the _same_. An’ that I feel what he feels.”

“And what does he feel?” The question flew out of Harvey before he could stop it. A question he’d asked too many times of the ghosts and never more than sarcasm in reply. 

Stephen looked at him, ignoring the voice in his head and the monsters in the walls. “He’s afraid.”

Harvey wrote the word down. “Good,” he said. “It’s about time.”

* * *

The little boy was hard to spot in the dark. He stood out like a charcoal smudge in the night, slowly shivering his way back up towards the house in the glittering snow. In the light of the moon, his face was paper white. The blue of his lips was pastel. 

Casper, floating outside, surprised himself by shivering. The cold, for once in a long time, bit through. 

“This is… familiar…” He said, shivering again. 

Amelia was beside him again. Her breaths puffed out as smoke. “It would be.”

Casper blinked into the dark, at the boy. 

Something like a distant song tugged at his mind. 

And he knew. 

He _knew_. 

“I… remember this.” He didn’t mean to say the words. They came out on their own, dragged out by invisible string. “I remember-”

She nodded. “You do.”

_Got late._

_Got dark._

_Got cold_. 

It struck him hard, and he pulled back. “ _No_.”

“Casper.”

“ _No_!”

She touched his shoulder. “Kat helped you find this one, didn’t she?”

The tears springing up stung in the cold. 

“You found a sled. Right? In the attic?"

"But I got that sled when I was _eleven_." His voice was hoarse. 

"No. Sweetheart. I already showed you that memory."

"No."

"It was for your fifth birthday. Your father didn't show, and so he got you a sled. That sled." She pointed down at the one dragging behind the boy. "You found it in the basement where Ms. Danvers had it stored." 

He shook his head, swallowing back a cry. 

Amelia sighed. “We don’t get to decide how our memories are remembered. And this… this was one of your first.”

“I _died_ .” He wiped his face, but it didn’t do much good. “I remember- from when I _died_.”

“No, honey. You didn’t. Not yet. Not now.” 

He pulled away from her hand. “But…” His voice hitched. “He’s not _here_!”

“No,” she said. “He’s not.”

“But he _has_ to be here!”

“You were _so_ young. Early memories fade and twist so easily.” She folded her hands. “The details get lost, but not what was important - what mattered.”

He raised wet, questioning eyes to her.

“And what mattered in _this_ moment-” She gestured out over the hill. “-was that _he_ was here.”

“ _Casper!_ ”

“Hi Uncle Stephen…” The little boy croaked, trying to move his stiff body up the hill. 

The man was on his knees in the snow, looking the child over, hands skirting across his face, his shoulders. Making sure he was real and there. “Holy shit,” his Uncle breathed, dragging the child to his chest, pulling him in tight. “Holy _shit_.”

The boy blinked over his Uncle’s shoulder, thoughts moving slowly in the freezing temperatures. The boy was soaked through, but he didn’t shiver. “... S’cold.”

Stephen moved quickly, letting him go only long enough to grab the teetering child, snaking his hands beneath Casper’s arms and hoisting him into his own lithe ones. 

Casper reached behind him blindly. “Th’sled…?”

“Leave it,” Stephen said, breaths coming out too quickly, holding the child as tight to him as he could while he hurried back up the hill. Casper’s body was slumping. 

“M’I’trouble?”

“You’re in the fuckin’ stocks.”

“... sorry.”

“ _Later_ , Cas,” he breathed, the house's light finally hitting them. “I’ll scream your head off later.”

“M’kay.”

The open door was waiting for them, and the housekeeper was just outside, squinting and shivering through the cold and the dark. 

“Stephen, did you-oh thank Heaven!” Nell’s lantern cast a soft glow on both faces. “Quickly - straight to the kitchen. We’ve got to get him out of those wet things and into the bath.”

The house became nothing less than a hive as soon as the man strode back in the door, holding the soaking boy. In the light of the kitchen, the ghost could better see the child. His skin was too pale, tinged in blue. In the sudden heat, he vibrated, teeth chattering. 

Ms. Danvers directed the scene around them, barking orders to the flurry of staff hurrying in and out of the kitchen. 

And in the eye of the hurricane stood the man, holding too tight to the little child in his arms. 

Floating to the side, Casper watched him. 

The situation of the moment was finally catching up to him. His face was a portrait of fear and anxiety, eyes wide and misting. 

He held the boy like he might have, at any moment, melted away into snow. 

Nell was back again, grabbing his elbow, startling him back into the world. “Stephen. He needs to get out of those clothes.”

“Right…” Stephen said, lost.

She reached for Casper, but Stephen stepped back, holding him tighter. 

“If he doesn’t get out of his clothes,” she said, as gently and firmly as she could manage, “he’ll get _sick_. He needs to get into the bath.”

Stephen looked between her and the boy, realizing what she meant, and the housekeeper took it as a sign. When she reached again, he didn’t pull away, letting her remove the boots, the socks. One hand on his elbow, she guided him to kneel beside the wash bin, to hold the child out, steadying him to stand on the floor, when she undid buttons and peeled off layer after layer. 

With every layer, his Uncle seemed to wake up a little more. “He’s _freezing_ ,” he said, voice thin, helping Nell get the boy’s shirt over his head, steadying him with one hand against his back.

The five year old didn’t notice anything. He just teetered on his feet, eyes half open, blinking slowly. 

The pile of wet clothes barely touched the floor before a pair of hands scooped it away, carted it off to the laundry. Another pair of hands laid a thick towel on a nearby chair. Yet another tested the water in the basin before the child was placed inside. Another still put a tin cup in Nell’s waiting hand, which she used to pour warm water over the boy’s shoulders and back. 

The little boy flinched, hissing. “Sorry, dear,” she said softly.

“S’matter with ‘im?” Stephen’s eyes searched for the problem, hands tightening around Casper’s sides. 

“Likely stings,” she explained. “Tip his head back”. The man did as she asked, holding the child steady while the cuffs of his suit were soaked through. “Someone ready a change of clothes for Mr. McFadden as well, please.”

Slowly, the boy in the tub started to shiver.

Above his head, Stephen’s eyes widened, and found Nell’s.

“It’s okay. It’s just what happens. Look here,” she said gently, raising a washrag to the boy’s face. The cheeks were regaining their color. “See?”

The five year old scrunched up his face as she scrubbed it, and then as she pulled the rag away, he glanced down at the hands around his torso. “Oh no…”

Ms. Danvers poured another cup of warm water down his back. “What’s wrong, love?”

“We got Uncle Stephen’s suit all wet. An’ it’s _Italian!_ ” His voice was cloyed with cold and exhaustion. The once-blue lips were quivering.

Stephen barked out a shivering, nervous laugh. “It’s fine, Cas,” he said, raising up one dripping hand to wipe at the boy’s face. His voice quaked. “I can always get a new suit.”

“But that’s your _favorite_ …” Casper sniffled. “It’s _Italian_!”

“Never liked Italy anyway,” he said, taking the rag from Ms. Danvers to run it across the boy’s hair, flattening down the curls with pearls of water. 

The woman watched him, for just a brief moment, and while everyone else in the room missed it - the boy, the man, the staff, the ghost - Amelia smiled to herself. 

And, quickly as it had come, the moment passed. The housekeeper blinked, shook her head imperceptibly, and then twisted in place to ask the chef to put the kettle on.

“Put a hot water bottle in Casper’s bed,” she told a passing maid, but Stephen grabbed Nell’s shoulder. 

“My bed,” he said. “In my bed.”

Nell looked between them and slowly nodded. “You heard him. Lay out Casper's nightclothes there, too.”

There was more activity. 

Water was boiled for tea and oatmeal. 

Logs were carted in from the woodpile.

Pajamas were hung by the fireplace in the bedroom. 

“We need to call a doctor,” Stephen said, finding his voice again. He had picked up the rag again and was washing carefully behind the boy’s ears, watching the color return to them. “For the morning.”

“I’ll leave a message with one in town.”

“Can we send our carriage?" 

“I’ll get it arranged.” 

“M’fine, Unc’Stephen…” Casper slurred from inside the wash bin. 

“You won’t be when I’m done with you,” he said, but his voice didn’t hold any venom. “We’ll have a talk later.”

Casper nodded — a jerking, heavy motion — and then sniffled again. “Don’t feel good…” he said, softly. 

Stephen swallowed. Fear sparked behind violet. “You’ll be fine. A few days of rest an’ Miss Dibbs’ soup - you’ll be up an’ botherin’ me again soon enough.” 

Casper’s lip quivered again. “Sorry…”

Nell looked ready to step in, but Stephen beat her to it, his expression dropping. “Aw, Cas. No. I’m- _no_. You ain’t a bother. Never are.” He dipped forward, his sleeves in the water again, wiping the child’s face down with the rag. “Just Uncle Stephen bein’ a stupid bastard, like always.” 

“L’n’guage…” the boy mumbled.

The laugh that slipped out of Stephen was small, shaky, and thick with emotion.

“All right.” Nell set the cup down outside the bin. “I like the color in his cheeks and the water’s beginning to cool. Let’s get him out.” She grabbed the towel from the chair and stood, holding it out open, waiting.

Hands under the boy’s armpits, Stephen hoisted him up and out of the bin, and Nell brought the towel around the little shoulders. From the periphery, one of the maids said, “Fire’s roaring up in Mr. McFadden’s room.”

“Good. Thank you, girls.” The housekeeper cast a weary smile over the room while Stephen gathered Casper up into his arms again. “As soon as the food is ready, please bring it upstairs.” They left the room to a chorus of _yes ma’am’s,_ the woman trailing behind the man holding the boy down the hall and up the stairs. 

As they passed the child’s room, he piped up softly. “Hey…”

“Not tonight, Cas,” Stephen mumbled into the still-wet hair. “Lucky little trouble-makers get to bunk with Uncle Stephen.”

“Oh...kay.”

The fire was indeed roaring in the hearth in Stephen’s bedroom, and Casper’s thick, woolen, footed pajamas were waiting beside it. Ms. Danvers closed the door behind her and held out her arms for the boy. “Why don’t I get him dre-”

“I can do it,” Stephen cut her off, tightening his grip on his nephew again.

“I’m sure you _could_ ,” she said, smile teasing and kind. “But seeing as you’re currently dripping all over the floor, I thought you might want to take care of _that_ first.”

He looked down, as if noticing his wet clothes for the first time. 

“Go get changed,” she said, gently. “You’re no good to him if you aren’t all together.”

“Right. Yeah.” He pulled the kid in closer but didn’t resist when Nell took him from his arms. He watched for a moment, and then, with a shake of his head, went to the dresser to take out his night clothes. He moved back to the bed, reaching for the boy, but pulled away. “I’ll be back.”

“Take your time.” She toweled off Casper’s hair, standing him on the large bed. “He won’t melt while you’re gone.”

Stephen nodded before slipping out of the room. 

From the doorway, floating beside Amelia, Casper could only watch him go, looking between his retreating form and the boy on the bed who was tipping forward, half asleep. 

“He… he looks like…”

“Like what?” Amelia asked.

“Like _not_ Uncle Stretch,” was the only way the ghost could think to describe it.

His guide inclined her head. “Your Uncle Stretch probably hasn’t felt fear like this since he died. And your Uncle Stephen hadn’t felt it _before_ this either. Poor man is _quite_ out of his depth.” She nudged Casper’s arm. “But that was the thing about him. He would always learn to swim through it anyway.” 

* * *

Harvey watched Stephen pour himself another drink. The last part of their conversation had left the man shaken, memories tugging at his head with no place to go and no real image to describe. The unknown beneath the sea. 

He was right, though. There was a ghost in the walls that James had never considered, and he could feel it now, as solvent as the rest of them. Watching from the shadows. 

The therapist idly wondered what it would take to make it leave.

But there was only so much time that they had together. “So, Stephen.”

The hard eyes looked up at him. 

“I want to bring us back. You told me a lot about your brother… but you haven’t told me as much about one of those reasons you and he ended up at odds.”

“Casper?”

Harvey nodded. “Casper.” 

“Yeah.” Stephen nodded. “J.T. never put a hand on that kid. Not that I knew of, anyway. An’ he still managed to _hurt_ him.”

“Absence can do that.”

Stephen winced. He touched his temple. “There’s more than that. But…”

“Dark spots?”

“... yeah.” 

“So then let’s start with what we _know_. You came to keep the estate solvent, but stayed for Casper’s sake. That’s quite an evolution.”

Stephen turned the glass in his hands, the warmth returning to his features. “Kid had a way of just… worming his way in, ya know?” He plucked up the photo of the boy in the ocean. “I mean, lookit ‘im. All the shit he went through before he was even four, and look at how he still smiles.”

Harvey looked at the picture a little closer. The boy had his ankles in the sand. He was holding a shell in his hands, showing it to whoever held the camera. His blonde curls were wild with drying salt, and his smile was bright. “He’s a cute kid,” said Harvey. “God. I remember taking Kat to the beach. When she was little we lived in Wisconsin, so it was lakes rather than the ocean.”

“Yeah, there’s just somethin’ about kids an’ water, huh?” Stephen’s mouth curled upwards. “No fear, either. Just about gave me a heart attack, running headlong into it without thinkin’. Got told in _no_ uncertain terms that I was ‘no fun’ for not lettin’ ‘im go in without lessons first.” He shook his head, still smiling sadly. “But I never was the ‘fun’ one.”

James smirked. “You’re kidding.”

Stephen barked out a laugh. “Right? Nah, that was Franklin’s territory. He and Cas’ were glued at the hip from day one. An’ who can blame the kid, really? The man was a walkin’, talkin’ teddy bear - always _had_ been. Where that came from, I’ll _never_ know.” He shrugged, laid the picture back down on the desk. “And Sammy never knew how ta’ say ‘no’, so it was my job. Makin’ the rules and keepin’ ‘im outta trouble.”

“Huh.” Harvey made another note.

“What?”

“Not a _hint_ of resentment just then. You don’t fault your brothers for leaving the grunt work to you?”

“Those two? Nah. Layin’ down the law is what I was good at. That first year, I was so lost most’a the time; it felt good to have a job, and be good at it.”

“So no resentment.” Harvey wrote down a note. “But was it tough? Not being the- how did you put it?”

“The fun Uncle.” Stephen snorted. “Wasn’t always easy. A few times where I wished I was as good at Franklin at the whole… _fun_ thing. But made it through alright most times.” 

Harvey wrote down _jealousy_ right next to the word _responsible_. “And after they left?”

“Trial by fire, for sure. But we figured it out. Even managed to fix somethin’ Franklin hadn’t been able to.”

“Oh?”

Stephen swiveled in his chair. “Kid used ta get these nightmares. Can’t quite remember what they were about, but they were _nasty._ An’ he’d got so used to no one comin’ when he cried at night, he just… wouldn’t.” The fingers on the glass tightened their grip. “Wander the halls instead, ‘til he was tired enough to go back ta sleep.”

Harvey made another note. “That’s… geez…”

The ghost pressed his lips together, blinked hard. “Anyway, _I_ was the one who figured out how ta ward ‘em off. Six months in, he didn’t get ‘em no more. _I_ did that. _Me_. After that, even when they came ta visit, he didn’t want no one else putin’ ‘im ta bed. Felt bad for Franklin the first time it happened.” The smile returned. “But only a little.”

“So you two were close, then, from the looks of it.” He reached out and tapped one of the pictures. 

Stephen swallowed. Nodded. 

“You say you weren’t the Fun Uncle. But this…” he gave the picture another tap. “This looks like the kid was having fun.”

“Yeah. Well.” He shook his head, smile quirking. “You weren’t there for the tantrums an’ the times kid would sneak out from under me. The sulking was always a crowd pleaser, too.”

Harvey laughed. “He sounds like Kat.” He tapped the pen to the paper. “So you stayed with him. What was an average day. Not a good one. Or a bad one. Just… a regular Tuesday.”

Stephen chuckled. “You an’ I both know there’s no such things as ‘regular’ days with a kid.” He took another sip from the tumbler and then set it down. “Five minutes past sunup an’ all yer best laid plans have already gone off the rails. But…”

And James sat back, watching as the ghost he’d only ever known as cold, sarcastic and cruel launched into an animated description of the chaos that was living in Whipstaff in the late 1800s. The never-fail early-morning wake-ups, the inevitable mess that came with letting a child assist in shaving, the daily battles waged over what clothes should be worn, the awkward small-talk with the women at pick-up from school, the negotiations over how many bites of vegetables were sufficient to earn dessert, the beggings for just one more chapter before lights out.

“He only had two modes,” Stephen said, holding up two fingers. “On and off. All day long he was go-go-go and then eight-thirty hit and he was _out._ ” He snapped his fingers, then leaned back in his chair. “Somedays I was out by then too. Other days I’d come back here after putin’ him down - always regretted it, ‘cause the kid didn’t believe in sleepin’ in. But I had go _past_ his room ta get ta mine, and I’d always stop ta peek in at ‘em. Told myself, every time, just a quick peek. Make sure he’s really out an’ not playin’ with his trains or readin’ ahead.” He picked up his glass again. “Half the time I’d end up sittin’ in the chair by the bed. They look younger when they’re sleepin’, don’t they?”

Harvey had to swallow back the lump that had formed in his throat before saying, “Yes, they do.”

Eyes on his whiskey, Stephen nodded. “Glad it’s not just me.” He took a quick sip. “Anyway, that’s about as ‘regular’ as our days ever got.” Stephen let out a long breath. “S’funny. Before I came to Whipstaff, I was workin’ my way up the stock market. Had an office an’ everythin’. My job was excitin’. Blood in the water type stuff. And it changed when I came here. Doin’ it all from the office for a few hours, clockin’ out to play trains or bandage a scrape or read a chapter or chew the kid’s head off for leavin’ his toys out.”

“And how was it?” Harvey leaned back in the chair. “Every day, variations of the same.”

“Honestly?” Stephen grinned. “Wouldn’t have traded it for _anythin’_.”

James wrote a four-letter-word in the ledger. 

* * *

Back in the room, Ms. Danvers was tucking little Casper into the big bed, propping up extra pillows behind him. Miss Dibbs appeared, passing through the spirits with a tray of steaming hot oatmeal and tea. The housekeeper was trying to coax the boy to eat when his uncle returned. Spoon in hand, she turned to greet him with a tired sigh. “He insists he’s not hungry.”

The tall man, looking _far_ from intimidating in his pajamas and robe, frowned. “When’s the last time you ate, Cas?” he asked, coming to sit on the bed opposite the housekeeper.

“Lunchtime,” Casper murmured, tugging the quilt up higher under his chin. “But m’sleepy…”

Across the quilt, the adults made eye contact.

Stephen quirked an eyebrow.

Ms. Danvers shook her head.

“Sorry, short stuff,” Stephen said. “S’not gonna fly. Can’t sleep ‘til ya eat somethin’.”

The boy hid further under the covers. “Mm-mmm.”

“Come on, love,” Ms. Danvers said, tugging the blanket down. “Chef made it with maple syrup.” She offered the spoon again.

The tired eyes brightened, just a touch, and the boy opened his mouth.

“That’s a good boy.” The housekeeper smiled, handed the spoon to Stephen. “See that he eats at _least_ a third of this. I’ve got to go see that the kitchen’s cleaned up, but I’ll come and check on you both in a bit.”

She closed the door behind her, leaving the man and the boy alone.

Stephen drew the tray over closer, offered the child another spoonful. “C’mon, Cas. Couple more bites and I’ll let ya pass out.”

The boy groaned but let himself be fed.

Eventually Stephen handed over the spoon, giving him an order of _three more bites_ , and left the room.

“Where’s he going?” Casper watched him move quickly down the hallway. 

“His office, I think,” said Amelia. 

Casper hesitated between watching the boy on the bed pick at oatmeal and the empty hallway behind him. 

“... can I?”

She nodded. “I’ll be here.”

He ghosted through the door. 

* * *

His Uncle was sitting at the chair behind his desk when he arrived, holding the horned receiver to his ear. The operator had already connected him, and he was waiting through the long silence. 

He jerked up when something on the other end made a noise. 

“Franklin. It’s Stephen.” 

Another noise.

“I know it’s late. Just needed ya’ ta’ know —” he hesitated, grabbing a pen off the desk to roll it around on his palm. “Casper’s sick.”

There was a flurry of noise, but he interrupted it quickly. “Whoa. No! He’s- Kid’s alright. Under the weather. Lookin’ like a kicked dog. But he’ll be _fine_ . Jus’ thought you should- _No_ , ya’ don’t gotta come down here. He ain’t goin’ nowhere, and you’ll see him in a few weeks anyway. For Christmas.” 

There was a beat after that. By the doorway, Casper could see his face grow dark. 

“You think I’ve heard shit from him? Had one’a the maids call t’day. You know what he says? The fucker tells her to _leave a message with the hotel_ if anythin’ happens. Kid could keel over and he’d send a fuckin’ a condolence card.” His hand around the pen had turned into a fist. “It’s his fault anyway. Sent the kid the fuckin’s sled instead of comin’ to see him himself.” 

He rubbed his brow, listening. The person on the other end was getting louder. He nodded along, dark eyes fixed on the desk. 

“Of course I invited him to Christmas. But only cause I had ta’. He ain’t comin’. Didn’t come in back March, ain’t comin’ now, and Franklin… it’s gonna break Cas’ clean in half…” 

More waiting. More nodding. More holding the pen hard enough to snap it in two. 

“Yeah, well. You ain’t the one whose gotta break the news. Haven’t even figured how I’ll tell’m.” He scrubbed his eyes. “Listen. I gotta call Sammy and get back to the- yeah. I got a doctor comin’. In the mornin’. Kid’s gonna be stuck for a few days. He’s bunkin’ with me till I know we’re in the clear.” He paused, listening again. His ears turned red. “Aw _shaddup_ . _You’re_ the soft one.” He finished the call with a resounding, “Screw you too, asshole,” and slammed the receiver down. For the first time that night, his shoulders slumped, and he breathed out. 

His Uncle waited a few minutes before picking up the phone again. 

“Operator? 331 Chicago. Samuel McFadden. Yeah. I can wait.” 

* * *

Ms. Danvers came in again later that night, knocking on the door and waiting until someone called back, _come in_. The boy was already asleep, quilt up to his chin, blonde head nestled next to his uncle’s hip. Stephen's light was on, and he was looking over reports without reading them, sitting in bed in his robe, nervously glancing beside him every few moments.

She moved to collect the tray and then changed course halfway to it, coming to the bedside instead. She laid one hand on the sleeping child’s forehead, placed the other on her own. “He’s warm, but not as bad as I’d expected.”

“An’ that’s good, right?”

“For now.” She brushed at the fair hair before pulling her hand away. The boy made a soft sound before turning under the covers, pressing his face against his Uncle’s side. “If he starts to feel warmer than that, soak a washrag with cool water and lay it across his brow.”

The man in the bed nodded, one hand falling to absentmindedly cradle the back of the child’s head. “Anythin’ else?”

“Just let him rest.” She turned and picked up the tray. “And try to get some rest yourself, please.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I mean it.” She paused at the door, holding the tray against her hip with one hand, the other on the doorknob. “Go to bed. The doctor will be here bright and early.”

He began gathering up the papers in his lap into a pile. “I’m goin’, all right? Yeesh.”

“Goodnight, Stephen.” The words held a warmth usually reserved for the boy and he glanced up, meeting her eyes. His ears went red.

“Night, Nell.”

From the chair in the corner of the room, Amelia smiled to herself.

* * *

“So. Let’s go back to Casper for a minute.” Harvey leaned over to look at the pictures on the desk. “I know that he’s in that place. It must be hard, not knowing how he’s doing.”

“Fuckin’ impossible.” 

“You’re worried about him?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I’ve always known him to be resilient.”

The hand holding the photo shook, and then put it down with force. “Resilience only goes so far.” He glared towards a corner of the room. “No kid should have ta’ be resilient ta’ survive their own house.”

He said the last line almost to the air, but his inflection was hard, as if it was meant for someone.

It took Harvey a moment to realize that he was talking to Stretch. 

“He’s still listening?”

“We’re us,” he said, head still turned away. 

“Speaking of… _you_. Is this…?” Harvey gestured towards him. “Is this permanent? Because I’ve treated split personalities before. But it’s never this-”

“No.” Stephen shook his head. He took a drink, mulling over the answer. “It’s hard ta’ explain.” He tapped his fingers, words floating. When he was ready, he plucked them carefully from somewhere James couldn’t see. “I’m… not real. Or… I _am_. But not in the same sense as all’a you.” 

“Okay…” Harvey tapped his pen. “So you’re a figment?”

“More like a memory. Or a lot’a memories. Ghosts… ghosts aren’t just balls’a smoke. But they ain’t just dead people either.”

He set his drink down.

“Ghosts. They’re made up of pain. And fury. And _loss_. But most ghosts will never feel it.”

“Because they forget?”

“Bingo.” He tapped his temple. “Trouble is, some ghosts don’t forget as easily. Too much hurt ta’ just toss away an’ start fresh. An’ it doesn’t help when ya’ got reminders. The only reason my brothers are rememberin’ upstairs is because they found things that grounded ‘em back to memories. Only reason Casper started rememberin’ J.T. was because’a what Kat found.”

“But you’re saying that you’re here because there are _memories_. Something that kept Stretch aware of those feelings, even if he didn’t have a tie to them?”

“Right.”

“What in this house could-” Harvey stopped himself, looking up at the ghost. When the answer came, it was barely a breath. “ _Casper_.”

“Yeah,” Stephen strained. “Casper.” 

“So he _remembers_ Casper.”

“Not… not in the way ya’ think. Not yet. I told ya’. Ghosts… they’re made up of feelin’s. So that’s what it was. Every time he saw the kid. I can feel’m now.” He touched his chest, hands curling. “It’s a fuckin’ _poison_. Rottin’ away here. Anger. Rage. Other things I don’t got names for yet.” 

Harvey was writing as quickly as he could. “So what you’re saying is, you exist because Stretch remembered Casper?”

“I exist because Stretch don’t _want_ to remember. There’s a difference. Moment he does, I won’t be here no more.” 

“When Casper gets back, you mean?”

The ghost shifted. “That’s the thing…” He swallowed. “There ain’t no tellin’ if that’s linked. Kid’s on his own there. I ain’t allowed to intervene. An’ there ain’t no way for him ta’ get there ta’ talk sense inta’ the tyke. Not a way I know of anyhow. So once he remembers… there’s a chance he’ll do it without Casper.” There was a pain growing on his face. An agony. “I just… I don’t…” He shook his head. “Somethin’ happened here. Somethin’ at the _end_ . And Doc… It _broke_ us.”

Harvey stared across the table at the ghost. He looked so much like Stretch. The sharp features. The violet eyes. But his expressions held a softness he wasn’t used to. A careful, lasting ache about his eyes. Every line drawn across his brow and wrinkle about his eye was a story; an early wakeup, a soothed nightmare, a negotiation at the dinner table, a hug tight enough to pull the world together. 

_But that was Stretch_ , Harvey reminded himself. Every story, every line. It was Stretch. 

And he had that. Beneath the hard eyes and the sharpness, there were wake-ups and bedtimes and everything in between. 

The proof of it was sitting in front of him, desperate and alone and afraid.

Harvey was going to say something until a sound jolted him backwards. A breaking. A smashing. It took him a moment to realize that the glass the ghost had been holding had fallen to the floor, breaking apart. Stephen was bent at the waist in his seat, holding either side of his head. “ _Shit_.”

“Stephen?”

“He’s tryin’ ta’- _shit_.” His eyes squeezed shut. “We don’t got much time left ‘fore I lapse again.”

“What do you mean-”

“Before I go back _there_.”

“There?” Harvey was scribbling as fast as he could. “Where’s _there_?”

“Where _Casper_ is. With your wife.” He was slowly uncurling, but the pain in his face made it clear that they were racing against the clock. “They haven’t gotten ta’ the end yet. So I’m not sure what’s gonna happen. But the sooner we find out on this side, _before_ Casper can make that decision, the better. Kid’s still refusin’ ta’ believe any of it’s real. I gave’m my stubbornness. Sometimes wish I hadn’t.” He tried to laugh. It came out strained, and was cut off short by another wince. “He’s comin’ back. Least for a little while.”

“Hold on.” Harvey scanned over his notes. “You’re going back to where Casper and Amelia are?”

“Yeah-”

“So you can find out _more_. Find out what happens next?”

Stephen’s brows pinched. “I dunno. It doesn’t work like that. Lots’a the stuff I see there gets lost when I make my way here. The only one who’s gonna have the power to remember _everythin’_ is Stretch. An’ he’s fighting.”

“I’m not asking for _everything_ ,” stressed Harvey. “But anything you can. Just _try_ .” He tapped his notes, turning them around to show the ghost. “That’s what you always did, right? You _tried_.”

Stephen flexed his fingers against the desk. He looked down at the pictures. “Yeah,” he said. “I can try.”

“Good.” Harvey smiled. “ _Good_. Because there’s more to this. And if what you’re saying is true, then filling in these dark spots is going to be crucial.”

“ _I’m_ not the one ya gotta convince of that.” The ghost rubbed his temple. “Talk to ‘im. He ain’t gonna wanna talk, but ya gotta get’m talkin’. If he don’t start rememberin’ soon, we’re gonna lose our shot at makin’ things ri-” He hissed, clutching his head again.

Harvey watched, wide eyed. “Stephen?”

“He-s _shit_ \- he’s tryin’ ta- I can’t-” His body was wound tight. “ _I’ll be back!_ ” He closed his eyes, teeth gritted. “He’s kickin’ me but I’ll-”

The lights in the room flickered. The sheets on the furniture rustled. Harvey snapped the ledger closed and tucked it into his cardigan before the ghost raised his head again. 

His eyes were cold.

“Yer hour’s up, Doc,” Stretch rasped. 

* * *

Amelia was still in the room when Casper returned. They watched the scene play out before then.

They watched Casper’s fever spiked in the early morning. 

They watched Stephen drape a cool cloth over the boy's head, rubbing a hand down his spine. 

They watched Nell fuss and bring tea and broth that Casper refused to touch no matter what they did. 

They watched a man worry. 

And they watched a doctor arrive. 

It was just after the sun was up. The carriage holding the man rounded the driveway and he'd stepped out and was brought directly to the master bedroom. The doctor was a short man with a curled mustache. He wore a dark coat and hat that he never removed, stiffly going about his business, squinting through small, gold spectacles. Stephen hovered over him like a well-dressed moth, watching him take the miserable, shivering child’s temperature, leaving behind instructions and cough medicine. 

Eventually, the doctor pulled away, gesturing the worried Uncle into the hall. “You’re lucky,” he said. “ _Very_ lucky. This time of year I see far too many children falling victim to the chill.”

Stephen scrubbed his face. “So he’ll be fine.”

“He will be. But for now, he stays in bed. Call me if his fever gets any higher or if his cough gets worse.”

“Right,” Stephen said, nodding. 

Through the closed door, the two men (and ghosts) could hear Casper coughing; a deep, rattling sound. 

“I’d also advise,” the doctor said, brow raised, “that he sleep on his own. The last thing you need is what he has. He should be separated from the rest of the house for a week. At least.”

“And I’d advise you to keep your opinions to yourself,” Stephen shot back. “Kid stays with me.”

“But-”

“With _me_ ,” he said. He straightened out his suit. “My housekeeper has a check downstairs for ya’. We’ll call if we need anythin’.”

The doctor nodded stiffly, and with a gruff “ _Sir_ ” left the scene. 

When Stephen returned to the room, Casper was just getting his breath back. Stephen settled beside him again, helping him sit up. 

“Heya there, short stuff.”

“He… he said I got lucky.” It was the first thing Casper said, his voice small. 

Stephen looked like he was holding back a curse. He rubbed a hand down Casper’s back. “He’s a doctor, Cas’. They’re paid by the minute to say scary stuff.”

Fear sparked in the child’s eyes. He pressed back into the pillows. “But… I’ll be okay?”

Stephen was fast to answer. “You’re gonna feel like hell for a day or two. But yeah, bulbhead. You’ll be fine. Not lettin’ anythin’ happen to ya.” 

Casper nodding, sniffling. “And he said I should go back to my room so _you_ don’t get sick.”

“It’s just cause he don’t know that your Uncle Stephen’s immune to everythin’. Too stubborn to get sick.”

“That’s not true!”

“It is. Now come on. I brought you a book.”

“Is it boring?”

“It was my favorite when I was your age.”

“So that means it _is_ boring.”

“You want a book or no?”

The boy settled in without another word. 

* * *

Nell came in at one point with new hot water bottles. Stephen was in the middle of reading a chapter from _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ out loud, the child pressed firmly to his side, bundled in the quilt. 

Casper, floating by the hearth, could only watch and try to understand what he was seeing in front of him. _Not real_ , he thought, harder and harder. _Not real, not real, not real_.

It was getting more difficult to hear it. 

_Not real_ , he thought, desperately. 

_Are you sure_ , another voice soothed. 

Amelia took a seat in a chair pressed against the wall, listening to the man read, ignoring the ghost stuck in a loop of his thoughts. 

"Through nature's unpredictability not man's incapacity,” Stephen read. “No errors were committed in our maneuvers. Nevertheless, we can't prevent a loss of balance from taking its toll. One may defy human laws, but no one can withstand the laws of nature." 

“That’s one of my favorites,” Ms. Danvers said when Stephen took a moment to turn the page. 

Casper sat up when he saw her, but bent over to cough before he could say anything. 

“ _Jesus_ , Cas…” His Uncle put down the book, face pinched with worry. His hand was against the five year old’s back. “Take a breath. In and out.” 

The housekeeper cast a sympathetic look at the boy. “I’ll get some tea. Lots of lemon and honey.”

“Thanks Nell.” Stephen rubbed the kids back, attention on him as the child finally was able to breathe again. 

“Hi, Ms. Danvers…” Casper rasped. 

“Hello, dear. How are you feeling?” She replaced the water bottles, exchanging them for new ones. 

“Better.”

“He’s a filthy liar,” said Stephen. 

“Am not,” croaked Casper, before coughing again. 

She smiled, lifting the covers to pull out the old water bottles. “I see you’re having a nice day.”

“Mmmhm. Uncle Stephen’s reading.” 

“I see that.”

“He does all the voices wrong though.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah. He’s lousy at it.” 

Stephen smacked the back of the kid’s head. 

“Ow!”

“You want a story? Don’t criticize the reader.”

“But I can’t tell the difference between Professor Aronnax and Captain Nemo! The professor is from France! He should sound like it!”

“I only got one accent kid, and I ain’t learnin’ another.” He laid the book down in his lap. “You want me to stop? ‘Cause I’ll stop.”

“No, please.” The boy snuggled in closer, shaking his head.

“S’what I thought.” 

But as Ms. Danvers left the room, she caught the slightest hint of a poorly-attempted French accent on the way out the door. 

* * *

“You were even more miserable by the second night,” Amelia said. She flicked her wrist, dragging time forward, watching the figures move about as the sun drifted down outside the window. 

Casper watched it all, nerves still sparking. “Because…. Because I was getting sicker?”

“Well,” she explained, slowing time down again with another _flick_. “Your fever had gone up again. But that’s normal for children. No. The reason you were miserable was because you were finally awake enough to get an earful.” 

“Oh…”

“The hell were you thinkin’, bulbhead.” 

The child was picking at some lint on the sheets, face flushed for more reasons than fever. He didn’t look up when he mumbled, “I wanted to play outside...” 

“But I didn’t know,” Stephen said, reading the side of the cough syrup bottle for directions. “An’ Ms. Danvers didn’t know. An’ stayin’ out that late-” 

“I didn’t know how late it was.”

“It don’t matter! It was stupid. What could’a happened if we didn’t find you, huh? Or if you came in and we still didn’t know?” 

Casper curled in against the pillows, knees to his chest. 

The ghost of the boy nearly did the same beside his Guide. “He looks so angry…”

“My husband used to say that anger and fear were bedfellows. It can be hard to tell one from the other.”

“So he’s scared?”

“Mmhm.”

“ _Why_?”

“You tell me.” 

He closed his mouth tight. 

“Just tell me next time, kid. We can go out together when I ain’t busy.” 

“But…”

Stephen dipped down, trying to see the hiding face. “But what, Cas.” 

“But I _signed_ ,” the little boy said, voice muffled against the pillow. 

Stephen squinted. “ _What_?”

Casper made a miserable little noise against the pillow. 

“Casper?”

He finally turned his head to the side. “You said I couldn’t! I _signed_!”

“You signed?” His Uncle frowned. “The hell does that mean, you si-” He paused, and the ghost off to the side could see the moment the words finally registered. “Aw _fuck_.”

“Language!” His nephew squeaked. 

“Shit,” He sat on the side of the bed, rubbing his face with his free hand. “That was another one of Uncle Stephen’s gold-star moments, huh?” 

The boy watched him. 

The ghost did the same. 

Stephen eventually drew in a deep breath, hand falling from his face to press against the child’s back. “That was… I had no clue what I was doin’ then. I still barely do, sometimes. It was supid, alright? A bastard move.”

Casper sat up slowly. “I _signed_ ,” he said. “An’ we shook on it. ‘Member?

“I remember.” Stephen pushed back his hair. 

“And I promised! Or else-”

“Or else _nothin’_.”

Casper squirmed. “So I’m not... liable for material damages?”

“Of _course not_.”

“And I get food and a… a roof?”

Amelia snorted at the last part. Beside her, Casper couldn’t take his eyes away, watching the man get onto the bed, his back against the headboard, pulling the child to his side.

“Always. You get those _always_. Never gonna take nothin’ like that away. Not if ya’ break a rule or you need somethin’ or if you make a mistake. Hell, I make a million a day and you’re still stickin’ with me.” 

“But it’s a _contract_.”

The ghost of the boy frowned, looking away. Amelia went to stand beside him. “You were five years old,” she said. “These little things meant a lot to you. He didn’t understand that at the time, but he was beginning to.”

“He hurt me.”

“He did,” she agreed. “But he’s trying.”

On the bed, Stephen pulled the child closer. “Maybe we need a new contract, then. A better one. For _us_. Not just for you.”

“Can I help write it?”

“Yeah, Cas’. You can. But until then… if you wanna go outside, if you need somethin’ — come get me, alright?”

“Even if you’re on the phone?”

“Even if I’m on the phone.”

Casper nodded against his side. 

For a moment, there was quiet. 

“But you ain’t goin’ out until Christmas.”

The boy jerked up, pausing to cough. “ _What_ ,” he said, once he’d caught his breath. 

“After that stunt?”

“But-!”

“An’ I think Nell could use some help washin’ up in the kitchen for a few nights.”

The boy opened his mouth, closed it, and crossed his arms. 

“Don’t give me that look, bulbhead.”

“S’not fair!”

Stephen laughed, dragging the sulking child close. “It’s more than fair. You took five years off my life. S’the least you deserve, and you won’t do it again after I’m done with ya.” 

Casper’s sulking turned into a sniffle. He curled his knees tighter up. 

“Aw, Cas’. S’okay.”

“S’not,” mumbled the child. “Made you worry.”

“Yeah. You did.”

“An’ I don’t feel good.” The kid wiped at his eyes again with the back of his hand. 

Stephen sighed. “C’mere, short stuff.” He reached down. The child was happy to be lifted, and reached up his arms, letting himself be dragged onto his Uncle’s lap. Stephen collected the small child, winding his arms around him, chin tucked on the top of his head. One hand drifted to the sheen brow, grimacing. “This thing really walloped you good, huh, kid?”

Casper nodded, then tucked his face into his arm to cough.

“Uh oh.”

“What?” the boy croaked.

“Ya know what it’s time for?”

“Oh _no._ ”

“Oh _yes._ Quack’s orders.” The man stretched out an arm to pluck the little brown bottle from the nightstand.

Casper buried his face against the man’s shirt. There was a little muffled whine of _no-ooo-o_. 

“Well, next time, who’s gonna think twice before playin’ in the snow alone, hmm?” The man grabbed up the spoon as well, and popped the cork out of the bottle. “Hmm?”

“Me,” the boy moaned. 

“That’s right. ‘Cause, boy is this stuff rank. I would _not_ wanna be you right now.” He poured some out into the spoon. “Now open up.”

Casper continued to hide his face.

“C’mon, short stuff. I got a drawer full’a peppermints waitin’ for ya ta get this stuff down.” He lowered the spoon just as the boy (eyes shut, mouth open) raised his head. The noise he made as the medicine hit his tongue was like a drowning cat. “Oh, quit’cher bellyachin’. S’not that bad.”

“Is _too._ ” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He replaced the bottle on the nightstand, and grabbed the glass of water instead. “Here.”

Casper and Amelia watched the child get some of the water down. He coughed a few more times, sinking against his Uncle’s lap, but eventually they faded. He settled, breathing steadily, face flushed. 

His Uncle bundled him again, leaning him forward to unbutton his suit and shirk off the jacket, making it easier for him to wind the child up in thin arms. Silence swelled, interrupted only by the crackling of wood and a child’s breathing. Stephen’s chin fell against the curls, holding tight.

And then…

Amelia was the only one who noticed it. 

Casper’s gaze was elsewhere, focused on the little child. He didn’t see the flicker. 

Just a _flicker_. 

Stephen’s eyes, which had been locked on the little head of blonde curls, blinked. Like he was waking up somewhere he didn’t know. They peered down. At the child. At the bed. At the fireplace. 

A flicker; and the violet gaze moved, and turned to stare at Casper. 

The ghost. 

Amelia’s eyebrows went sky high and then she plastered a smile back on just as quickly. She reached beside her, grabbing the little arm. “Casper?”

The gaze on the ghost was still set. 

“Hmm?” The ghost looked up and away from the bed.

Just like that, the man there realized what he’d done and quickly looked down, focusing too hard on the scene he was suddenly a part of. 

“There’s a phone call going on downstairs that I really think you should see.”

“Why?”

“Oh!” She brushed back her curls. “Well. Your other uncles let themselves get so worked up worrying about you, that Samuel drove all the way across Chicago to Franklin’s apartment so the two of them could call together for a status update. Nell should be picking up the phone in just a second.”

Like clockwork, from through the walls (louder than it should have been, dragged higher at Amelia’s flicked wrist) they both could hear; “Whipstaff Manor. Yes, I’ll take the- _Franklin?_ Of course, I- _Samuel_? Hold on, I can’t- slow down.” 

Casper had twisted towards the voice, and Amelia leaned down. “It gets pretty Marx Brothers-esque by the end. Go on now.”

Fighting a grin, he floated down through the floor.

Amelia made sure he'd left before she turned towards the bed.

"Hello there, Stephen." 

* * *

“Stretch?” Harvey leaned back in his chair.

The ghost across from him, fixed him with a dark glare. “Had a little fun there, did ya? Well fun’s over, Doc.” He began to push away from the desk, spotted the whiskey still in the glass and downed it. “You’d better get back to the rest of the traitors.”

James folded his arms, feeling the ledger shift beneath his sweater. In his pocket, the orb pulsed slowly. “I think I’d better stay.”

Stretch’s right eye twitched and he rose up. “Fine. Always hated this room anyway.” 

“Not always.”

His therapist’s voice caught him before he made it to the door and he stopped, fists tightening at his sides. “Yes, _always_.”

“Only since you’ve been dead,” James countered, turning in his chair. “When you were alive-”

“It don’t _matter_ what it was like when I was alive!” Stretch spat.

“Yes it _does._ ” Harvey watched the ghost’s back. “What happened in his house when you were alive, when you were _with Casper-_ ”

“Shut _up!_ ” The lights in the room surged as Stretch wheeled back around. “My life ain’t none’a your concern.”

“Technically, as your therapist-”

“You’re fired.”

“Can’t fire me if you don’t pay me.”

The ghost scowled and turned to leave again.

“What about as your friend?” It was a long shot, but it got him another stalled spectre in the doorway. “Is your life my concern then?”

“Think I must’a dropped ya on yer head too many times.” The ghost muttered. “‘Cause we ain’t friends.”

“What am I then?”

“A _nuisance_ .” Stretch turned back and began pacing the room. “A meddler, just like yer damn brat. Things were _just_ fine before the two’a you showed up, ya know that?”

James twisted in his chair to watch him. “Were they?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“For everyone? For your brothers? For _Casper_?”

Stretch didn’t look at him. His fists were tight at his sides. “You sound like _him_.”

“He and I were making some progress.”

“Because he don’t know when ta’ shut up.” He touched his temple, frowning. 

“Because he knows, just like Amelia said, that your memories are the key to getting Casper back,” Harvey said. “Which _you_ want.”

“You don’t know what I-”

“ _He_ wants it. _You_ want it. You’re parts of the same whole, Stretch. This isn’t some outside force possessing you. It’s just _you_.”

Stretch snarled. The lights flickered again.

“This isn’t happening to your brothers,” James pointed out. 

“Good for them.”

“Stretch.” James wanted more than anything to adjust his glasses, but he kept his arms folded, kept the ledger tucked tight against his body. “This isn’t happening to them because they’re not fighting it. And-” he added after another minute, watching the ghost in front of him, carefully, “And I don’t even know if it could happen if they wanted it to. Stretch. The three of you each played a role in Casper’s life before. But I think the one you played was _unique_.”

“ _Shut up_ -”

“And we need to know what it was if we want him _back_.” 

“Who says I do.”

The comment slashed at the air, stabbing deep into the shadows. 

It hit harder into Harvey, and the next words out of his mouth were the most unprofessional of his current career, but they fell out of him anyway. 

“That’s _bullshit_.”

Stretch spluttered. 

“That’s _bullshit_ , Stretch.”

The ghost snarled. “You don’t know-”

“But _you_ know. Even if you can’t get to those memories, they’re in you. Look.” Harvey scrambled for photos, holding each of them up. “That other side of you knew all of these. When you taught Casper to swim-”

“ _No_.”

“The graphs he made, working at the desk over there.” Harvey reached for another photo, holding it up. “Teaching him how to ride a bike.”

Stretch flinched, looking away. Harvey, for a moment at least, had him. “You _remember_.”

“I don’t.” 

“You _do_. I know you don’t want to. I can see how much it’s hurting you-”

“You don’t know shit.”

Jame plucked up the drawing. “I know that a child doesn’t draw pictures like this of people who aren’t _incredibly_ important to them.”

The lights were flashing overhead. A tell. 

Harvey took a chance to step forward again. “Kat and your brothers are in the attic right now, because there are dark spots they’re trying to fill. Dark spots that wouldn’t need filling if you would just help them.”

Stretch cast a dark glance at the ceiling. Over the rain outside and the buzz of electricity humming, the girl’s footsteps could be heard. They could hear Kat and the other Uncle’s talking through the walls. Voices muffled through the floor. The occasional squeak of an opened box or the _thunk_ of something heavy being dropped. 

“This house is full of dark spots,” Harvey said. “It’s been that way a long time, Stretch. Longer than I realized. I told you once that holding memories was like plugging up a dam. There’s only so long you can hold this back. And I don’t want to know what happens when it bursts. But even you need to admit…” Another step closer. “It’s a little odd that the only one bursting is _you_.” 

Stretch flinched, still hunched, facing the window. 

“Not Stinkie. Not Fatso. _You_ .” Harvey drew up beside his patient, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “And if you feel as if you _can’t_ help us, then maybe you should let me talk to Stephen again.”

“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” Stretch growled. “The two’a you drinkin’ my booze, havin’ a few laughs at how shitty my childhood was-”

“So you _do_ remember-”

“Never said-” Stretch sucked in a breath, brought his fists down on the windowsill. “That bastard needs to mind his own fuckin’ business. _You hear me?”_ He lifted his chin, speaking like someone else in the room could hear him. “Hey! What’s the matter? Got nothin’ to-” 

He cut himself short, fists still clenched tight on the sill. He looked like he was waiting for something. Preparing for something to happen. And when it didn’t, his brow furrowed. 

“Stretch?”

“I don’t…” He paused again, brows stitched together. “I don’t hear’m.”

The book beneath Harvey’s sweater, tucked away, was burning a hole through the doctor. The words he’d written practically etching their way into his skin. 

“I can’t-” Stretch shook his head. “I can’t _feel_ him.” 

“Yeah. He, uh. He said he’d be back.”

“Fuck if I let _that_ happen.”

“I don’t think that’s your call to make.” Harvey watched his patient’s face and recognized something he’d only ever seen over the past few days. “I know that the prospect of what he represents is… terrifying.” The ghost gave him such a furious look that he recanted. “Daunting, let’s say. But he’s _you_ . You’re _him_ . Without _him,_ you’re not _whole_. And I’ve got a sinking suspicion that we’re not going to get Casper back if you’re not.”

“An’ who says I even _want_ ‘im back?” Stretch growled through gritted teeth.

Harvey raised up the drawing, still in his hand from earlier. “This doesn’t look like a pair that ever wanted to be separated.” 

Stretch turned away. 

Harvey only held the picture up higher. “ _This_ doesn’t look like a pair that was ever meant to be apart.” His free hand touched the paper, a finger jabbing against the little drawn stick hands held tight together. “I wouldn’t have guessed. Never. Not when we first arrived. Not when I began working for you-”

“Ya’ don’t-”

“I wouldn’t have guessed this. If none of this had happened, Stretch? If you hadn’t burned the pictures, if Casper hadn’t gone…” He put the picture down on the desk, spreading out all the photos and drawings. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“There’s nothin’ to guess.”

“You need to _look_ at this.” 

“I don’t _need-”_

Harvey picked up the photo of the boy on the beach, flipping it over. “‘Took to the water like a fish.’” he read aloud, “‘Now I’ll never get him off the damn beach. Looking into getting a phone installed on the dunes, otherwise I’ll never get any work done. June 1890.” 

“ _Stop-_ ”

He picked up another one. “‘Finally got Casper dressed in something nice. Learning how to fix his own necktie. Was ten seconds from ripping it off when I told him it made us look like twins. Wore it the rest of the day after that. April 1891.’”

He picked up the last picture in the set. “Attempting to teach Casper to ride his bike. Been practicing all week, and he kept asking me to let go. Knew he wasn’t ready then.”

“ _Stop_ ,” Stretch hissed. 

Harvey kept reading. “‘Practiced again today, and he asked again. And I finally let go.’”

Stretch’s hands were fists at his sides. 

“‘The kid rode on his own for a few seconds before he almost fell and I had to catch him. Nearly bust open his damn head. Hate this bastard machine, but he loves it, so can’t convince him to stop riding. I’ll figure out how to get used to it. Told him I was proud, and that I’ll try letting go again another day. Going to keep holding on for now. July 1890.’” He put the picture down, watching the ghost. “At the beginning of this night, I had my assumptions. I thought that Stinkie and Fatso were at least a part of his life. I thought that the three of you were _here_ . But it was more than that. I don’t know _how_ much more. But it was _more_. And it wasn’t one sided.” 

“I _had_ ta’ be there,” Stretch said. His voice was strained. 

Harvey pushed the pictures closer. “This goes beyond obligation.” 

“You don’t even know that’s me.”

Harvey picked up one of the drawings, turning it over. In blocky handwriting, spaced and littered in errors; _FOR UNCL STEPEN. FRM CASPER_.

Stretch turned away, jaw clicking. 

“Beyond obligation,” Harvey said again. “It might have started that way, but something happened. You and Stephen _are the same_. The only difference is that he has answers, and you _don’t_.”

“An’ what if I don’t _want_ the answers?”

The therapist tilted up his chin. “Then you’re not going to have very much.”

“And what _do_ I have.” Stretch turned on him, hissing. The desk between them suddenly felt like a valley. “Hm, doc? If he’s got _answers_ , an’ I don’t _need_ em, then what do I got? Tell me. Please. In all your infinite fucking wisdom.”

Harvey pushed the pictures closer to the ghost. “You’ve got a lot of hurt. And a lot of _fear_. And I get why-”

“You don’t know _shit_ -”

“I get why,” Harvey continued, voice rising above the ghosts. “Because this _hurts_. More than anything, this _hurts_. Whatever happened, whatever memories you’re keeping. About J.T. about Casper. I mean; I’m asking you to jump into the void and _trust_ that there’s a bottom. And whatever’s there, at that bottom, it’s bound to hurt more than all of this. Because whatever happened at the end, Stretch? I’m starting to think it’s the reason you’re here.” 

The lights above them whistled, electricity humming. 

Stretch swallowed. He watched the doctor. Harvey pushed the picture of the child on the bike closer. “Something happened. There’s more mysteries, and we need to unravel them. Because the bond you had with Casper? The role you played in his life? In who he is _now_ ? It went beyond what we - _what I_ \- could have ever thought.”

The ghost who had struck terror into the heart of a small child daily now looked down at the photographs like they were very well haunting him. 

Harvey watched him. Watched and did his best to remember. 

The notebook beneath his sweater still burned. The four letter word felt like an omen. 

“You have memories. You might not know them. But you _have_ them. Something happened, between _this_ picture,” Harvey pushed it even closer, “and the end. Something that was enough to turn this house into a gravity well of hurt and anger. Something that was enough to keep you here.” He flipped the picture over, reading again. “‘ _I’ll try letting go again another day. Going to keep holding on for now._ ’” 

Stretch’s eyes were hard.

Harvey’s gaze matched his. “I’m wondering, purposefully or not, if you ever let go.” He flipped the picture again. Casper’s wide smile flickered beneath the surging lights. “Somewhere, buried deep, you’ve got answers. Whether you know it or not, you do. And I think you’re avoiding the Knowing, because it hurts. And I think you’re afraid there won’t be a bottom if you fall. But Stretch… something happened. Between the beginning and the end, _something happened_. Enough to shatter this house. Enough to keep you all here. Enough to make you forget, at least until your memories caught up with you again.” 

Stretch had hovered closer now, reaching for the photo with hesitant little movements. 

“You were important to this child, and he was important to you. And we don’t know how. And we don’t know _why_. And we aren’t going to know what happened in the dark spots until you give us that light. But we are running out of time. And somewhere, right now, there’s a child who's been wondering for years who held him, and why they let him go.” Harvey watched Stretch, from his pained violet eyes to his reaching hand. “I’m wondering if they ever did.” 

* * *

Amelia stood inside of the memory, waiting. 

Woodsmoke and aftershave lingered like a brand on the walls. 

The room was filled with the sounds of the crackling fire and the soft breaths of a child. 

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” she said. “I thought you were on the other side.”

Silence. 

She raised her brow. “Unless you were pushed out. Were you?”

More silence. 

Stephen shifted Casper, the little boy’s head against his chest, heartbeat in his ear. The man held him tight, his face pressed into the fair curls, closing his eyes. Breathing in. 

“I just want to stay here forever.” He sounded raw. Exhausted. And when his violet eyes opened, they moved up-

up

up

-to meet Amelia’s. 

“This moment,” he said again. “I want to stay here.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.” 

He nodded, watching the boy against his chest. His long fingers carefully untangled a knot of blonde hair, smoothing it down. His voice was twisted with shadows when he said, “It’s never ending.”

“Unless he remembers.. Until _you_ remember, rather.” Amelia approached the bed, leaning her hands against the bed frame. “You didn’t answer my question before.”

“Yeah,” he croaked. “He pushed me out.”

“Because he’s remembering?”

The fire in the hearth popped and hissed as a log split. 

“A little. But it’s like pullin’ fuckin’ teeth. He’s a stubborn ass.”

“Of course you are.” 

“He’s fightin’ me at every turn.”

“It’s been a long time,” she said. “A long time without knowing. He’s resisting because he’s afraid to feel _this_ again and he doesn’t know anything else. _You_ don’t know anything else.” 

His jaw hardened. His hands drifted across the little head on his chest again. “He forgot- I mean… _I_ forgot. I became a ghost and _forgot_.”

“You didn’t forget.” Her patient eyes stayed on him. “You buried it. All of this, _this side of you_ , you buried it a little deeper down every year.”

“Don’t you think I fuckin’ know that?”

“You asked me to help you break free. I did everything I could-”

“And he still ain’t cooperatin’, and if he don’t start soon, I’m gonna be stuck _here_. In the endless fuckin’ loopin’ Hell of these memories. I’m bein’ punished. For forgettin’. For hurtin’ him in the After.” He paused a moment before adding, “and I deserve it.”

Amelia shook her head. “It isn’t a punishment, Stephen. It’s a bookmark. A placeholder. Until this moment could happen where Casper was desperate enough to leave and come here.”

“It feels like a punishment.” Something hitched in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He breathed once, twice, three times before they opened again. “The same memories every time. It was bad enough seein’ those fake ones _you_ planted-”

“I wouldn't have gotten him here if I hadn’t, and you know that.”

“- but even _without_ that shit… I have ta’ fuckin’ watch all’a this. From the beginning…” His fingers tightened around the child, “to the end.”

She gripped the bed frame tighter. “You know what comes next.”

“I know.”

“Only a few more memories, and then-”

“I _know_ ,” he barked again. In his arms, the boy squirmed, and he lowered his voice. “ _I know_ ,” he whispered, hissing. “I know what fuckin’ comes next, because I watch it. For a hundred fuckin’ years, I been watchin’ it . I have to _watch_ -”

“You know as well as I do that Casper has to see it,” she hissed back. “He has to see it _all_. Especially if he’s going to choose-”

“ _Shut up_.” 

The words held little ire. They were heavy. Weighted with knowing and waiting and a desperate hollowness. They both fell silent. The logs in the hearth shifted again. “I know what comes after the next memories, because it _always_ comes after the next memories,” he rumbled. His eyes turned dark, and he looked at her over the child lying against him. “ _He_ comes back.”

Amelia stayed quiet. 

“ _He_ comes back,” he said again. “An’ it ain’t ever easier to see. An’… an’ I just want… I just _want_ …” 

The room returned to its crackling and heavy quiet. The darkness at the corners of the walls hovered and watched. In the midst of it all, a man held a boy close. 

“Stephen?”

“It could still end again, if he doesn’t - if _I_ don’t - get these memories back.” 

“It could.”

“It’s been like standing outside a window, watchin’ somethin’ I can’t control. And now… now I gotta watch _him_ too.” He tilted his chin towards the door where the ghost had left. “Knowin’ what he’s goin’ through. What he’s _been_ through. What _I_ did to’m. And I can’t grab him up. I gotta just _watch_ and wait and-” He snarled against the child’s head. 

“It’s Casper’s choice.”

“He can’t cross over-”

“He can, actually.”

“He _can’t_ .” There was a notch in his words. “He _can’t_ , because I can’t do it again. I need to remember. And he needs to go _back_.” 

Amelia watched them. 

Watched the room flicker in the light of the dimming fire. 

Watch the world around them hold its breath.

Watch the man hold and hold and hold. 

“Then I guess,” she said, “we’ll both have to keep working. Won’t we?”

He nodded, but didn’t move, wrapping his arms around the five year old, holding fast.  “I dunno what else to try. Everythin’ I show him, he just fights and denies it all.”

She folded her arms, began pacing a small circle on the carpet. “Maybe we’re approaching it the wrong way with him. With Casper, we  _ have _ to start at the beginning. But Stretch, despite what he might say,  _ knows _ this already.”

Stephen turned to watch her, cheek still pressed tight to blonde curls. “What else is there?”

She shook her head. “I’m not su- there’s got to be something  _ concrete _ . Something that encompasses  _ everything _ that happened here.”

“S’a pretty tall order, lady.”

“But it exists.” She paused her pacing, sat herself down on the end of bed, and sought his eyes. “Doesn’t it?”

“Probably.”

“That’s what you need then.”

“But I don’t even know what  _ it _ is,” he said, lifting his head.  “You know how this place works. We forget. Every cycle of this story, and I forget all over. It’s pushing a fucking boulder up a goddamn hill. An’ I haven’t seen those memories yet.”

“You can’t stay and find out. Not if you want to give him a chance.” She shook her head. “We’re running on borrowed time right now.” 

Stephen swallowed. “So I’m just supposed to tell him to find…  _ something _ .”

“Yes.” She nodded, hands folded in her lap.  “But you’ll know it when you see it.”

“ _ How _ ?”

“Focus on the feeling. I find those can be productive in times like these.” 

And there was a feeling. Deep in his chest. It was a new one. A final one. Curling, burning, brewing flames through his skin. The  _ thing _ he was looking for hovered in the back of his mind like a song long forgotten, the melody just out of reach. 

But it was there.

His brow knit together and he nodded.

“Then  _ that’s _ what you need to focus on. When you go back.”

“Yeah.” But instead of making any move to attempt to do so, he pressed his nose into the boy’s hair again.

“Stephen. That’s just a memory. He’s not  _ real _ . And if you want to get Casper back, we need to move quickly. We’re running out of-”

“One more minute here,” he murmured, shifting the sleeping child into his lap, breathing. His words were muffled by the child’s hair, resting against it. “This always ends too quick, an’ I never get to just  _ stay here _ .”

“Stephen-” 

“If he decides… I might never get this again. So can’t ya’ give me that? Just one more minute?”

Amelia sighed. 

Around them, time slowed. 

.

.

.

By the time Casper returned five minutes later, the memory had already faded away. 

* * *

Harvey was so close. 

He could feel it, see it, watching the way Stretch looked down at the pictures, hand still hovering just near them. 

The eldest brother had always been his trickiest case. It had been a year, and Harvey frustratingly had never found a way through the fortified walls Stretch had meticulously built around himself. 

For the first time, he felt as if he held a key. 

“You can touch them,” Harvey said. His voice felt too large in the silent room. Stretch’s eyes flickered up to meet his, breath stalled. “I know Kat had rules there, but if you wanted to look through these…” and he pushed the little pile closer to the ghost, “you could.” 

Stretch’s hand hovered some more, unsure. 

Harvey and his key watched, and waited, and knew, above all else, that no mistake could be made. Not here. Not now. 

“Go on,” Harvey encouraged again, careful to keep his voice low. “I know you won’t do anything to them.”

The words surprised Stretch. 

But they surprised Harvey more. Because even though he didn’t know how, or why, he knew they were _true_. 

Or at least, he hoped they were. 

Kat had been worried about Stretch destroying pictures. 

But something that Stephen had said before he’d gone Who Knows Where was still ringing with Harvey. 

_The monsters are still down there waitin’._

He couldn’t get out the notebook from beneath his sweater. He wasn’t sure what Stretch would do if he saw _that_. But he’d written down his observations from Stephen, and a few had stuck out. 

_Relationship with brother_

_Black Sheep vs Wolves_

_Tie to Casper_

_Animosity lasted beyond memories?_

It was a suspicion, but it was one that James was willing to put on the line. 

He’d never seen the pictures that had been destroyed. Kat had found them, shown them to Casper, and the two of them had kept the photographs hidden from the rest of the household. But from what she’d told him, they’d been pictures of Casper’s father. 

Nothing more. 

It was a chance. A real swing of a chance. 

But James wanted to take it anyway. 

Looking down at the pictures, up at the still hesitating ghost, Harvey held tight to his assumption. His hope. His theory.

**_The monsters are still down there waitin’._ **

Stretch would not destroy the photos, because they weren’t the right person.

* * *

Casper’s fever would break early the next morning, and Stephen showed it more than the boy did. 

“C’mon, Cas! No layin’ around!”

“Go away…” The boy murmured into the pillow. The clock beside him had its hands at 6:03. “Still sick.”

“You’re not,” Stephen said, reaching across the bed to drag the kid up, setting him on his feet. “I gotta strip the sheets for the maids. And _you_ ,” he gave the child a shove to the door, “need to get dressed. In _your_ room. Lots to do!” 

“I remember James cooking a three course dinner after Kat had her first fever,” Amelia said, gesturing to Casper to follow her down the hallway, opposite from where the boy was moving. “He nearly sang the house down.”

Ms. Danvers was already in the kitchen when the two ghosts arrived, pulling bread from the oven. She was just slicing it when Stephen arrived in a freshly pressed suit, tugging Casper behind him. 

“Look who it is!” She brushed her hands off on her apron. “Looking so healthy and awake!”

Casper grumbled, wiping his eyes. 

“I’ve got work to do.” Stephen pulled Casper forward. “Just came down to let ya’ know that you’ve got a helper.”

“Lucky me!” Nell spread butter on both slices, handing one to Stephen, putting another on a plate waiting on the table. “How long do I have him for?”

“Aaaaall day. Ain’t that right, Cas?” 

The boy nodded morosely. 

Ms. Danvers held back a wild grin. “I’m sure I can find jobs for him to do.” 

“The harder the better.” 

“I’ll have him climbing up the chimney.”

Stephen snorted, kneeling down to meet Casper’s eye. “Be good for Ms. Danvers. Do what she says.”

“M’kay…”

“Aw cheer up, bulbhead. I’m not sending you to the zoo yet.” He flicked the child’s forehead, standing. “Be in the office if you’ll need me.”

“Oh, we won’t.” 

On the floor in front of her, Casper crossed his arms. “I didn’t mean to do anything.”

“You gave your poor Uncle the fright of the millenia, so let’s indulge him, alright?”

“Okay.”

“That’s the spirit. Now eat your toast. You and I have a lot of work to do.” 

* * *

The next time his Uncle would find him was before dinner, coming down the steps to see the five year old standing on a stool carefully stacking dishes from where they’d been drying. 

“Look at this place!” He ruffled the boy's hair as he passed, making a show of inspecting the kitchen. “Shinin’ like the top of the Washington Monument!” 

“He did a _wonderful_ job.” Ms. Danvers put a pot of stew and thick slices of black bread on the table. “Helped me clean the dining room silver _and_ dusted the parlor.”

“And I did the dishes!” Said Casper, pointing. “See!”

“I do see,” Stephen said, lifting him off the stool. 

Ms. Danvers put down silverware on the table beside bowls and cups. “So warden, what do you think? Is he free from punishment?”

The little boy watched his Uncle dramatically tap his chin. “I dunno.” 

“Please?” Casper leaned forward, arms wrapped around his Uncle’s legs. “I’m sorry I scared you and got sick and made you worry!”

Stephen turned to Nell. “I’ll let him off early. On good behavior.”

Casper cheered. 

Ms. Danvers sighed wistfully, “And I was _so_ hoping I could retire early. Ahh well.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen.”

She’d gotten only a few steps towards the door, when Stephen cleared his throat. “Actually, Nell - hang on a minute.”

“Yes?” She turned.

His ears flushed and for a moment it looked like he’d forgotten what he’d wanted to say. At his side, Casper tugged on his sleeve. “Uncle Stephen! I’m hungry!”

The lanky man blinked down at the child and the gears began turning in his brain again. “Go grab another bowl, will ya?” he told the boy, giving him a shove, before looking back over at the housekeeper. “That is, unless you had somewhere else to be…”

It was her turn to blush, cheeks suddenly pink as she stammered, “Well, no, I suppose not, but-”

He gestured at the table. “Then stay.”

Casper plunked a third bowl down. “Yeah! Stay! Please?”

“I-”

“Be nice to talk about somethin’ that isn’t _trains_ for once,” Stephen said.

“Hey!” Casper frowned.

“Yer a great kid, Cas, but a lousy conversationalist.”

“A what?”

“Exactly.” He turned back to the housekeeper again. “C’mon, Nell. Stay?”

She looked between the two of them, the hesitation on her face melting away, leaving a pleased, shy smile in its place. “Oh very well.”

The boy let out a _whoop_ and the man clapped his hands together. “Hot _damn!_ ”

Nell snorted.

Stephen’s wide smile faltered, and he straightened up, smoothing back his hair. “Right. Okay.” He spun so his back was to her, cheeks matching his ears. “Bulbhead, you’re the kitchen expert now - where’s the napkins?”

Happy to help, Casper scurried to the cabinets, fetching everything else needed to set an extra place. “Uncle Stephen,” he said as he laid them all out of the table. “You gotta pull out her chair. Like a _gentleman._ ”

“Since when do _you_ know what gentlemen do?”

“Since _Oliver Twist_.” 

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Dickens. _Course_. Ya know that hack got paid by the word, right?”

“Just _do_ it, Uncle Stephen.” The boy planted his fists on his tiny hips. “She’s _waiting._ ”

“I’m really not-” Nell started, fighting a smile.

“No, no, kid’s right. Where’re my manners?” He grabbed the back of the chair and tugged with too much force. The legs scraped against the tile with a sound like an elephant trumpeting.

 _Everyone_ \- memory and spirit alike - cringed.

The living Casper lowered his hands from his ears. “Jeez…” He turned to the housekeeper. “He’s pretty bad at this. I’m sorry.”

Ms. Danvers put a hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “Not to worry, dear. He was _always_ bad at this. I’m used to it.”

The boy clambered into his chair. “Really?”

“Oh, I could tell you _stories-_ ”

“Please don’t,” Stephen managed.

She patted his cheek before taking her seat. “-but for now, I think we should eat before the food gets cold.”

From the doorway, Amelia hummed. “Well isn’t that sweet?”

Beside her, Casper watched the little group settle around the table, twisting his hands together. The boy with the curly hair leaned over the stew pot and he could feel hot steam on his face from across the room. Stephen tugged the boy back into his seat and he felt a pull at his left elbow. He rubbed at it, lips pressed tight together.

* * *

The picture looked heavy in Stretch’s hand. He held it like Atlas with an entire world on his back. The weight around him spread around the room, grounding even the shadows.  And Harvey watched, quietly, as a flicker of warmth appeared in violet eyes, and hard angles softened just a touch. 

“Water was freezin’. Always is, up here. Didn’t bother him any. Kept tuggin’ on my hand, wantin’ ta go further out.”

The orb in James’ pocket pulsed softly. The man swallowed, weighing whether or not he should speak.  Whether he should breathe. The moment seemed made of glass.

Stretch was speaking. Stephen had gone, and Stretch was speaking.  Then; a flicker of fear. “All I could think about was that hand slippin’ outta mine.” 

The hand holding the picture quivered. 

“That’s a scary thought,” Harvey said softly.

“It did once, I think…” Stretch’s free hand, hovering just above the desk, curled gently. “Slip out, I mean. Waist deep. He saw a shell. Somethin’ shiny. An’ he went under. It was just a second. A fuckin’ second. Popped back up, an’ he was fine. Drippin’ wet an’ grinnin’. But I remember thinkin’...” The words seemed to surprise him, eyes fixed on the picture. “I…  _ remember _ …” 

Harvey leaned forward. 

The moment; so fragile and delicate, hung alongside the shadows. 

“You remember…?”

The ghost blinked, and the angles sharpened again, the warmth snuffed out of his eyes. He let the picture fall back to the desk, turning to face the window. “Get outta here, Doc.”

“Stretch,  _ that _ was a memory.”

Stretch’s jaw twitched. 

“And it didn’t hurt you, because you didn’t fight it. If we could just work through them together-”

“I  _ said _ get lost.”

“I can’t do that.”

The lights above their heads buzzed dangerously. “If you won’t go, then I’ll just hafta-” He bit off the end of the sentence, hunching over the windowsill with a growl.

Harvey got to his feet, his chair scraping the floor.

Something told him that Stephen had kept his word.

* * *

Stretch’s grip on the windowsill was the only thing keeping the ghost off of the floor. The lungs he no longer had were seizing, desperate for air he didn’t physically need. The thrumming, throbbing pain in his head was back, which meant-

There was a flash of something. A recent memory. A skewed memory. 

A woman in a red dress.

A small ghost with hardening eyes. 

The scent of firewood, sickness, the dampness of sweat from a brow pressed under his chin. 

_ “No more screwin’ around. We’re runnin’ out of time.” _ There was an urgency in the returned voice. A fear. 

“Thought I kicked you-”

_“There ain’t no time ta’ argue,” Stephen hissed. “We gotta_ find it _.”_

Stretch opened his mouth and then shut it again, grinding his teeth. His chest hurt, from more than just the air he couldn’t get, and he didn’t know why-

_ “Yeah ya do.” _

He did. 

He  _ did _ . 

It was the same ache he’d felt when he looked at that picture. When he’d thought about a tiny hand slipping from his grasp.  The tug of the ocean. The turn of bike wheels.  When he’d brought a little boy in from the cold and held so tight he-

He choked on a gasp. He hadn’t thought of that one before.

_ “That was a shitshow of a night.” _

The ache was joined by something new. Something clawing, clutching, terrible.

_ “Thought we were gonna lose ‘im.” _

The smell of fever and firewood was back. 

The feel of hot water on his wrists. Holding boiling skin. Small breaths ghosting his shoulder. A weight in his arms. 

Harvey’s voice sounded, calling his name through a fog.

“Can’t.” The word choked out of him. 

_ “Can’t what?” _

“Can’t lose ‘im.”

_ “Well. Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.” _

Harvey called again, from across the chasm. “Stretch?”

The specter turned, shoulders still hunched, breathing still ragged. “I hafta find it.”

From the other side of the desk, Harvey put one hand into the pocket of his sweater. “Find what?”

“It.  _ Them _ . I gotta- I gotta-” He turned wild eyes towards the file cabinet and the top drawer flew open, spitting papers into the air. Harvey jumped back, towards the door, as they rained down over the room.

_ “Shit. Wish I’d known how ta do that.” _

“S’gotta be here. I  _ know _ it.”

_ “We do.” _

“I fuckin’  _ know _ it, but-”

“ _ We’ll know it when we see it. Just keep looking.” _

Stretch was only half listening, compulsively plucking papers from the air as they floated down,  throwing them to the side each time. They piled on the ground like snow. He knew it. He  _ knew _ it. Housed in the back of his head. The words on the tip of his tongue, the song from long ago half remembered, the feeling of  _ familiar, familiar, familiar _ burning through him. A well-remembered unknown.  “No. No.  _ No _ .”

“Stephen?” Harvey asked.

“ _ Wrong _ .”  Another paper flung to the ground. 

“Stretch. Is he back?”

The ghost ignored him, sent the second file drawer slamming open with a look. “Gotta find it.  _ Fuck!  _ Where’d I put it?”

“What’s ‘it’?”

“I don’t know.”

Harvey blinked. “You don’t know. Does  _ he _ ?”

Stretch turned just as the second drawer’s contents shot into the air. “We’re gonna find out.”


	13. The Eve of the Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whipstaff Manor hosts a Christmas Eve Party, Stephen makes a decision, Casper comes to a realization, and the McFadden's contemplate their legacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for my good friend zermgerms - you absolutely need to look her up on Tumblr and Instagram. She is am INCREDIBLE artist (who has done some drawings for this story, but has so much original stuff that you must, must, must see - please go and support her!) and an amazing friend. <3

“You guys really should consider having a haunted yard sale or something.”

Kat stood in the middle of the attic. Without the pressure of Stretch on her back, it was easier to get a good look at her surroundings. All of the boxes, the toys, the dust covered armoires, the clothes that had been left out of protective boxes and were half eaten by moths. 

“Yeah, well, not really sure who’d show up to a haunted _anything_ these days.” 

“Oh I’m sure we could find a few suckers. Always were luring them in here one way or another.” Fatso’s voice didn’t hold the same joy as it normally did, but the joking helped bring at least a little light back into his face. “We always tried ta’ teach Casper a trick or two.”

“Kid never really took to scarin’,” said Stinkie, rifling through one of the unlocked chests. 

“He was too nice for that,” said Kat. She finally found a box that looked untouched and pulled off the lid with only a little trouble. The nails wriggled free. 

Fatso flinched, nodding. “Yeah,” he said, rooting through a box full of what sounded like coins. “He was, wasn’t he?”

She nodded, looking through the box. There were some old clothes. Too big for Casper. 

She pulled out a bowler hat, twisting it in her hands. Placing it down, she took out a jacket. It was a little faded, but it had been bright enough originally to at least retain most of the color. 

It had been yellow, Kat surmised. 

Yellow and _plaid_. 

“Oh jeez,” she said, turning it in her hands. “Who in the family was color blind?”

“Hey!” Fatso brightened a little more considerably. “Stinkie! Look at that!”

“Aw, yeah!” When Stinkie saw the suit, he flew over, plucking it from Kat’s grasp. The cold struck her fast, and she blew on her fingers. “My old rags!”

“ _Those_ were yours?” She rubbed her hand against her jeans, friction heating them up. “Really?”

“Oh yeah.” Fatso floated over. “Never had a problem spottin’ this guy in the audience when he came to a show.”

The teen peeked back into the crate, the next jacket visible was pink. “No kidding. Hey, so here’s a weird question-”

“Weird’s all our middle names, kid,” Fatso chuckled. “Shoot.”

“You guys lived in Chicago.” She pulled the sleeve over her hoodie up over her hand to wipe at the dust on the lid of the box. ‘S. McFadden’, it read. Just like the boxes of Casper’s toys. “Did you move back here before you died? ”

The brothers looked at each other.

“You remembah movin’ back?” Stinkie asked.

“I can’t even remember how I died yet,” Fatso shrugged. “But I think I rented my place in Chicago. Maybe the landlord had stuff shipped back?

“I guess that makes sense.” Kat nodded. “Little anticlimactic, but I guess some mysteries are gonna have boring answers.”

“They can’t all be bombshells,” Stinkie said, refolding the suit jacket and placing it gently back in the box.

“Well at least everything’s labeled. If we can get through the dust, we can start organizing things. Here-” Kat pulled a sheet from a piece of furniture to used for dusting-

-and revealed a wooden cradle.

“Oh wow.”

The two ghosts floated on either side of her.

“Was that-?” Fatso asked.

“Yup,” Stinkie affirmed.

“What?” Kat asked.

“That was _ours_.”

“No way!”

“Yup,” Stinkie said again. “I taught this one how ta climb out of it,” he jerked a thumb at his brother.

Fatso chuckled. “Really?”

“Needed someone ta play with.” Stinkie floated around to the other side of the cradle, pointed to a small pair of indentations that could only have been made by buck teeth. “J.T. was never any fun, and Stretch acted like playin’ was babysittin’. So as soon as you were big enough to crawl, I taught ya how ta escape.” He glanced up, caught both of their stares, and blinked. “Huh. Didn’t remembah that until just this second.”

“D’awwww.” Fatso swooped over to catch his brother up in a tight hug,

“All right, all right, save it, big guy.” But despite his squirming, the smaller ghost was smiling. “We got mysteries ta solve, remembah?”

Fatso gave one more squeeze for good measure and then released him, turning his attention back to the cradle. “Can’t believe J.T. didn’t scrap it for somethin’ more modern.” He ran a finger along intricate carvings on the side.

“You kiddin’? With how obsessed he was with legacy an’ all that? No way.” 

“What do you mean?” Kat asked.

“We told ya about the house not bein’ his, right?” Stinkie said.

“Yeah.”

“So he an’ Stretch were only a year apart - he got it in his head that _he_ should’a been the eldest. S’long as I can think back, he acted like it.”

Fatso began nodding. “Followin’ Pa around, barkin’ at the help. Never bothered ta learn any of their names.”

“Weren’t worth it,” Stinkie added. 

Kat frowned and took her sheet to go start revealing labels on more boxes. 

“An’ some of ‘em had been there since we were little,” Fatso said. “The chef and the butler, we saw more’a them than our Ma and Pa.”

Stinkie moved away from the cradle, found another box with ‘S. McFadden’ on the top and tugged at the lid. “There was a maid too, little bit older than Stretch, like a big sistah to us. Shit, what was her name?”

Fatso was gently pulling a sheet down from a roll-top desk. “Which one?”

“The one that would smack yer hand with a spoon when you tried ta sample stuff before it was ready.”

The bigger ghost laughed. “Oh, I dunno! I can picture ‘er though! Tiny thing, shorter than you. Damn, wish I could remember her name. Always liked her. Think she was still there when we came back, wasn’t she?”

“Think she was the one who called us, worried about the kid” Stinkie got the lid off of his box. “Huh. Whelp, don’t think this one’s mine. Trouble with havin’ two brothah’s with the same initials.”

“One’a Stretch’s?” Fatso asked, sticking a finger in the keyhole of the desk and popping the lock.

“Ya know anyone else who’d keep ten years worth of Boston Globes?”

Fatso chuckled. “Nope.”

“Come on, guys,” Kat grunted as she tugged at a box labeled ‘J.T. McFadden’. “I know this is fun and all, but we’re kind of on a clock here.” The lid creaked open, revealing stacks of patents. 

“Might feel a little aimless ta you,” Fatso said, leafing through papers from the desk. “But I think just bein’ up here is helpin’. Hey Stink, check it out - this must’a been yours while we were here.”

His brother floated over, was handed a stack and his eyes lit up. “Heh, lecture material that didn’t make the cut. Must’a been from-” He scanned the page for a date. “Yep, month or so before we went back west.”

Kat sighed, moving to another box. They were wasting time. Casper wasn’t going to come back to hear old botany lectures or listen to records. There had to be more. Something worth coming back for. She found herself standing next to a crate she’d already opened - of books with near-identical inscriptions. She picked one up and cracked it open, as if it had more to give her than it already had.

“What’cha got there, kid?” Fasto was flying over, and as he spotted what was in her hands, he frowned. “Oh man.”

“What?”

“S’all the books J.T. sent over the years.”

“What?” Kat repeated, tone harsher. “No. These are from Stretch.”

“Mm-mmm.” Fatso shook his head.

“Yes they are,” the teen said. “He didn’t sign them, but it’s so obviously him. I mean, just read them!” She held out the book in her hand to him. 

It had to be obvious. To fit the mold she had built for him (that he had shaped with his own anger and fury and abuses), it _had_ to be. The violet eyed ghost downstairs could have done nothing less than leave and leave and leave again and again. And this box of books had been her honey pot to prove it. 

It was obvious. 

It _had_ to be obvious.

Her stomach sank when Fatso ran his translucent hand across the inscription and shook his head again. “Nope.”

“But-” she was grasping. “It _has_ to be…” 

Fatso frowned at the inscription, then called out, “Stinkie!”

“Eh?” the smaller ghost looked up from the lecture notes.

“Bring one’a them Globe’s over here, will ya?”

“Why?”

“ _C’mon_ , Stink. Just do it.” 

Kat did know what he was talking about until Stinkie nodded, plucked an old newspaper from the crate, and flew up next to his brother. 

“Open it up to the financial section.”

Stinkie did so, laying it out flat on a nearby box. The spread was marked up with handwritten notes all along the margins.

“He used to mark up all’a these old newspapers. Followed the day to day of the financial world like a fuckin’ hawk. It’s what made him so good at his job. Relentless bastard. He never missed a single paper. And we watched him scribble over them all. I’d know his handwriting anywhere now. Got it burned into my brain.” Fatso pointed to one of them. “ _That’s_ Stretch’s handwriting,” he said firmly. “And _this-_ ” He laid the open book down on top of the newspaper. “-is J.T.’s.”

Kat frowned down at them both.

Elegant, spindly, looping letters on the newspaper.

Rigid, blunt, squarish letters on the book.

“No way.” She darted back to the patent box, snatched up one of the sketches from the top of the pile, and laid it down next to the other two.

Rigid, blunt, squarish letters stared up at her from the sketch.

“Shit.”

“Told ya,” Fatso said. He didn’t sound triumphant.

“But, but-” Kat went back to the books, opening each one before setting it aside. “There’s dozens of these! And they _all_ say the same thing. ‘Next year’, ‘next year’, over and over.”

It couldn’t be true. And if it was, there had to be an explanation. 

His father had been so present. So important.

She had promised. Promised his father. Promised Casper. 

Who was alone. 

Just like she knew Stretch had left him. 

She put down a copy of _Robinson Crusoe,_ looking away to glare at the wall, and Fatso picked it up. His eyes flickered across the writing on the inside cover, then he offered Stinkie the book. “You remember this? Christmas Eve, 1888?”

“Christmas?” Kat looked between them and then back down at the book. The blocky letters stared up at her. “Were you there?”

_Next year at Whipstaff_

“We went back every year for the big things,” Fatso explained. “Birthdays. Christmas. The Fourth. We were there for the holidays. But that Christmas was special.”

“Why?”

He began to speak, but paused, looking down at the newspaper again. “I don’t…”

“Dark spot?” the girl asked. 

He nodded. “But I remember it enough. Little bits at least.” He swallowed. “I remember- it was a rough night.” 

The smaller ghost held the book in both hands. “Yeah… Rough night. But… good too? Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Fatso nodded, eyes shining. “Good too.”

* * *

Amelia brought them back down through the foyer towards the library. The sounds of laughter and of a thick Boston accent barking after hurrying feet faded away behind them. “I think you’ll like this one,” she said, putting both her hands on the double doors. 

Casper rolled his eyes, glaring at the floor. “S’all fake anyway.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But let's try to enjoy.”

She pushed open the doors. 

He had to blink to help his eyes adjust. Candles were everywhere. Garlands hung on every surface, and silver bells caught the light and twinkled. The staff hurried through, holding wreaths and bundles of cinnamon. He caught Ms. Danvers setting a silver pot of something on the table in the middle by fancy cups, and he could smell allspice from the doorway. 

In the corner, by the lit hearth, a Christmas tree twinkled. 

It was a little lopsided. Most of the ornaments had been, it seemed, hung towards the bottom half of the tree. It looked like someone else had done their best to even it out by putting more on the top. 

Turning around, following some of the staff, he saw that the foyer had changed, too. More greenery and candles and red velvet. Outside the windows, snow piled up, drifting past quick to get a look before joining the piles on the ground. 

“Stephen! Thank goodness. I was coming to find you.” 

Casper turned again. His Uncle was striding down the foyer steps in a gray suit, observing the buzz below with a careful eye. 

Ms. Danvers stood just below at the bottom of the steps. “Happy Christmas Eve.”

“So it’s _Stephen_ today?”

“Fortunately for you, I’m not irritated at you today… yet.” 

He snorted, waving her to follow him. 

Amelia followed behind, too, with Casper in tow. “This is Christmas, 1888. You were nearly six by then. It’s been a little more than a year, just by two months. And look,” she said, pointing to the man they were following. “He’s still _here_.”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” said Casper, frowning at his Uncle. “He’d be leaving after this. Remember?”

“Mmm. Right.”

“He’s _leaving_ after this,” Casper insisted. “He got his year. He did his time. Served his sentence or whatever.”

“Possibly.” 

“So this was probably his last hurrah.”

“Could be,” said Amelia. 

Casper glared at her. 

He was starting to understand why his Uncle Stretch had kept snapping. 

She shot him a smile in return. 

“Your brothers will be here in a few hours,” Ms. Danvers’s voice drew them back, trailing just beside Stephen towards the library. “The trains were all delayed because of the snow.”

“Told those numbskulls to get here a few days early.” He shook his head, looking around the walls of the large room; the garlands and bells and ribbons hanging off the second story balcony, the bookshelves, the windows. “Lookin’ good, Nell.”

“We’ve never done this much before,” she said, admiring it beside him. “It’s a nice change.” 

He hummed, turning his attention to the tree and what was below it. 

Casper, floating just near to him, did the same. 

He froze. 

“He’ll be so excited,” said Ms. Danvers. “I know Franklin was telling him over the phone that he had something from Chicago for him.”

“Yeah. And kid’s been trying to guess all week what I wrapped up for him.” His Uncle cackled. “I told him I’d send him to the zoo if he tried to open anything early. Think it worked.” 

Ms. Danvers grinned. “That’s _terrible_.” 

Beyond them, unseen, Amelia approached Casper. “Yes,” she said. 

He caught his breath enough to ask, “yes _what_?”

“What you’re thinking. Yes. Those are for you. Though I do believe that there are a few _there_ that you wrapped yourself.” And she pointed towards a little pile, hidden by a few low hanging branches, weighted with ornaments. Fumbling wrapping paper had been set around small parcels. Names had been written in dark ink with a careful child’s hand. 

UNCLE FRANKLIN

UNCLE SAMMY

UNCLE STEPHEN 

The last one had an addendum below. DONT SELL ME TO THE CIRKUS PLEES I WAS VERY GUD

Amelia snorted. “I think your letter to Santa said something similar about not being sent to a circus. Something about you not knowing how to juggle yet.”

“ _Great_ ,” Casper snipped. “So he’s threatening me here, too.”

“Mmm. Definitely. Those are very serious threats,” Amelia said. Sarcasm glossed her words and Casper huffed, crossing his arms. 

“We’ll be all set up soon.” Ms. Danvers was speaking again. “Chef adjusted her menu. We tried to include all the favorites.”

Stephen nodded. “Cas’ll be ready in a few, too. He’s been bouncing off the walls.”

Ms. Danvers opened her mouth. She closed it, turning around to check if any other staff were near enough to hear before shifting closer. “Any word from...?”

His eyes darkened. “Nothin’. Sent along a present. Was going ta’ burn the damn thing, but figured…” He shrugged. “Don’t expect him. That’s all I’m sayin’.” 

“Right… Well then. I’ll get the rest prepared for tonight, then?”

“Yeah.” The mood stayed heavy for another few seconds until Stephen caught sight of something just over the doorway, and his sharp eyes turned to the woman before him, smile just as cutting. “Did you put up _mistletoe_?”

“ _Stephen_.”

“Oh, Nell, you _tease_!”

“It’s traditional, Stephen. That’s all.” 

“Never said it wasn’t! By the way - any chance you’ll be standin’ around over there at, say, midnight? Because I might be drifting that way, too-”

“You’re losing your chances, Stephen…” She muttered, stomping off. She stopped at the doorway to turn around and curtly say, “but you _might_ find me here at midnight. If I finish my book and find time in my schedule.”

“Oh, Nell. You know I always loved it when ya took charge.”

She rolled her eyes, but they caught the pink in her cheeks before she turned on her heel to march out. 

Time shifted. Casper heard a loud knock on the front door and drifted with Amelia behind him. 

“I’ll get it!” 

The memory of himself had grown by a few months. The soles of his shoes squeaked as he took the steps two at a time. He looked like he’d been manhandled into the little green suit jacket and white shirt. His curls, which had been slicked back, were already fighting to get free again. It looked like someone had done their best to wrestle it with a comb. 

(It looked like the comb and the Uncle who’d held it had lost a few of those rounds.) 

“Oh… look at what you’re wearing. I remember dressing up Kat like that for Christmas. It takes _forever_ to get you dressed like that. Never lasts though.” She laughed, shaking her head. “She never lasted more than five minutes. You last about ten, I think. Drove your Uncle Stephen crazy..”

The little, well-dressed boy pulled at the door and shrieked. “You’re here!”

The two men on the stoop quickly stepped in, brushing off snow and ice from their coats. The coachman behind them in the drive was unloading their bags and chests. 

“Heya Cas’!” Franklin dropped to his knees so suddenly that Samuel almost tripped over him. “Get in here!” he declared, arms spread wide.

Casper didn’t need telling twice, throwing himself into the waiting arms so forcefully that the pair of them nearly tumbled over, laughing.

“Couldn’t wait ten seconds to actually _get_ through the door first?” Samuel asked, easing around them.

“Nope,” Franklin chuckled. He slipped one arm under the boy’s legs and got to his feet with relative ease. “How ya been, bulbhead? You get taller since the Fourth?”

“Mmhmm!” Casper nodded, beaming. He paused a moment to tilt his head. “Why dy’a call me that?” 

“Call ya’-?”

“ _Bulbhead_?”

“S’caus yer so smart. You’ve got a bunch’a bulbs in that head’a yours,” Franklin exclaimed, hoisting the child up higher, eliciting another round of giggles. “Caught on with your other Uncles eventually.”

“Neat!”

“And you’re lookin’ healthy!” Franklin appraised him happily, brushing a still gloved hand across the child’s face, ruffling his hair. “Fought off that fever like a champ, huh?”

“Uncle Stephen helped!”

“ _Did_ he?” 

“He came up with new voices for stories,” said the boy, before leaning in close and whispering, “ _but you’re better at it_.”

“ _Oh, I know_ ,” Franklin whispered back. 

Stephen finally arrived, helping Samuel with his bags, clasping his brother’s hand in a hearty shake. From farther off, the ghost could hear them talking; _nice to see ya’, bonehead_ \- _you too, ya’ bastard_. 

Casper barely paid them any mind, still hanging onto Franklin. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I go to school now!”

“Uncle Stephen told us, yeah!” The child’s enthusiasm was equally matched by the adult who held him. “Down in town? With the other kids?”

The boy nodded again, blonde hair bobbing. “My best friend is Benji - he lives on a _farm!_ ”

“Yer kiddin’.”

“Nu-uh! A _real_ farm. With chickens! Did you know chickens make eggs?”

“So _that’s_ where they come from.”

Around them, the other adults were unloading luggage. Ms. Danvers was gathering up coats and paused by the pair, her hand out expectantly for Franklin’s hat. “Oh yes, Benji’s mother often sends your brother home with a dozen or so when they meet at drop-off in the morning.”

The big man’s sparking eyes sought out his brother’s. “Makin’ good inroads with the other housewives, are ya, Stretch?”

“ _Stephen_ ,” the other corrected as he lugged an enormous trunk across the floor. “Jesus, man, you got a dead body in here or somethin’?”

“Be careful with that, would ya? S’all of Casper’s presents.”

In his arms, the five-year-old’s blue eyes went wide. “Holy smokes!”

“Hang on.” Franklin set Casper back down on the floor, handed Ms. Danvers his holly-wreathed hat, and crossed over to his brother. “Why don’cha let me get that one?”

Stephen let the heavy thing _thunk_ to the floor. “Why don’t you get _all_ of ‘em?”

Franklin’s only reply was a roll of his shoulders, a crack of his knuckles, and then he bent down and easily hoisted the trunk up with both hands. 

The little boy watched his Uncle Franklin in awe. “Uncle Stephen! He’s way stronger than you!”

“I can still take back your presents, Cas.”

“Don’t listen’ to him!” Franklin boomed, laughing. “C’mon, Cas, where’s the tree?”

“In the library!” The boy began jogging in the right direction. “Why did you call him ‘Stretch’? ‘Cause he’s so tall and skinny?”

The big man laughed. “You’d think! But nah, he got that name back in school - ‘cause he was always stretchin’ the truth to try and get out of trouble.”

“Did it work?”

“Not that much.” 

The spirits watched the pair walk off, laughing, and then the scene shifted again. Through the windows the sky had darkened, and the oil lamps flickered to life. The smell of pumpkin pie wafted from the kitchen. And from the library they could hear music and voices. Amelia moved gracefully in that direction. “Sounds like _quite_ a party.”

Slowly, begrudgingly, Casper followed.

* * *

The house was teeming with guests. Casper looked around, and realized that he recognized them all from somewhere. 

One of the women swept by in a green dress, and Casper blinked at her, as she stopped to laugh at something another group of familiar faces said. 

“That’s… Ms. Danvers.” he murmured.

“Looks different without the apron, hmm?” Amelia smiled. “All of the guests should look familiar. The chef is there with her two children.” She pointed out a little group. “And the butler? He’s there. His wife is somewhere in the crowd. Their daughter, too.” 

He thought back to the funeral. Different in so many ways (the colors, the sounds, the smells, the cries of a small child for a mother he’d barely known), including the guests. 

His father’s wealthy guests couldn’t be found. There was no talk of Prague or investment deals. The guests laughed, joked, ate, drank. A few maids whispered off to the side about Christmastime bonuses, nodding and smiling 

He could see Stephen looming over the crowd. He was taller than most of them, standing out like an overgrown weed in a field of grass. He held himself at a slight stoop to try and make up for the height while he spoke to his guests. There was a glass of mulled wine in his hand. 

At one point, Ms. Danvers was by his side. She said something, and he laughed.

Somewhere in the room, Christmas music pooled from a gramophone. 

There was more laughter, and they watched as the little memory of Casper weaved through the crowd towards where his other Uncles stood, 

“Uncle Franklin!” He had another child beside him. The other boy was a little taller with brown hair. He had on a blue suit and was grinning ear to ear. “Uncle Franklin! Uncle Sammy!” The little boy tugged on the pant legs of the two men talking in a group. They turned around, grinning down at the pair. 

“Hey, Cas! Who’s this!” Samuel was three drinks in and rosy faced. 

“Benji, from school!”

“Hi,” piped Benji.

“These are my Uncles I tell you about!”

“Nice to meet ya’,” Franklin boomed. “This your first time in Whipstaff?”

“No,” Benji shook his head. “I’m here all the time! I sometimes walk here with Casper and his Pa’!”

“His father?” Samuel frowned, thinking through the haze of spiked wine, before his eyes widened. “Oh! You mean-”

But Casper had already grabbed the boy’s arm and was carting him off to play with the other kids. 

The ghost of Casper watched him go, fixated. 

“Come along,” Amelia said, touching Casper’s shoulder. He jumped, looking away from the memory of himself and his friend. “There’s more party to see.”

* * *

“Stretch?” Dr. Harvey was watching the ghost plow through drawers. The room was beginning to look like a blizzard had struck inside. Papers of all sorts littered the hard wood floors. Blotches of red and black ink watched them from below. “Stretch, _slow down_.”

“There ain’t time to slow down…” Stretch paused a moment, brow furrowing, listening to someone far away. His jaw twitched. “We’re wastin- _I know what I’m doin’_. Just let me- check where? Shit, you’re right.” He dove for another draw, tugging it open. 

Harvey remembered vividly a memory of Kat getting a train set from him and Amelia for her fifth birthday. The trains had come with little magnets on either end to attach them together into a line. A favorite game of Kat’s had been to see if she could stick the two negative ends together, fascinated by the way they pushed apart. 

One day she’d come running into his office, thrilled at having accomplished the feat. 

_Look_ , she’d exclaimed, showing him the way she expertly maneuvered the little silver orbs together, twisting her wrist in just the right way so they’d eventually defy the odds and touch. _I did it!_

He was watching that again. 

Stretch’s voice had morphed into a strange twist and loop and tie of emotions that Harvey knew were coming from the new braided personality of Stretch/Stephen. 

His tone, his attitude, his behavior all moved back and forth, like the wheels of a rusty bike or a three wheeled car. He was merging, yes. But he was remembering, too. 

A single person, trying their hardest to remember how to come together. 

Two magnets that weren’t sure how to meet, pressed by the hands of a child who needed them to _be_. 

“Stre-Steph- _both of you_ -”

“We’re the same,” Stretch ground out from the filing cabinets. There was an echo beneath, like another had spoke forcefully enough through. 

“Fine.” Harvey moved forward, finally taking the notebook from under his sweater. “But you have to slow down.”

“We _can’t_.” Stretch looked at the next papers in his hand, tossing them away with a frustrated growl. They were added to the storm below. “We’re runnin’ out of time-”

“I know that.”

“So ya’ should know we _can’t_ slow down.”

“I know you should.”

“We _can’t_ !” Stretch turned around. He had another fistfull of papers in his hand, and they rustled like far off thunder. “Doc. We _can’t_ .” Despite the anger in his eyes, there was a horrible desperation beneath his voice. A fear. And James could hear it. “We already fucked up enough. _I_ already fucked up enough. An’ that kid’s in there. Alone. An’ if we don’t figure out what we’re lookin’ for-”

“I know.” James moved forward again, lowering his voice. He leaned against the desk, enough to catch his eye. “I _know_ . Trust me I do. And we’re going to figure it out. But we can’t do it like this.” He gestured to the ground. “You’re riling up. You’re _panicking_. You’ll miss something this way.”

“An’ ya want me to _slow down_.”

“I want you to _think_. That’s you’re speciality, Stretch. Always has been. Planning.”

Stretch swallowed. “Think ya’ called it _conspiring_ in a session once.” The joke nearly fell flat under the stress of the room. 

Harvey caught it before it could. Joking. That was good. He smiled. “Sure,” he said. “So conspire with me.” 

The bundle of papers Stretch had been grasping tight slowly fluttered to the floor. He let out a breath. 

Harvey went back to his seat, brushing off a few papers. He lifted a hand towards the rolling chair behind the desk. “Care to sit?” 

“Not really.”

“Sit.”

Stretch did, folding himself stiffly into place again. The pen was still where Harvey had left it (though it had been temporarily hidden beneath a sheet of scrap paper littered with a child’s handwriting practice) and he opened up the notebook he’d been using, looking at his own scribbles. “So let’s start over.”

“Doc-”

“We’re not getting anywhere tossing things around Stretch, and you _know_ that. There’s only so long this can go before we run out of papers to throw. And that might not seem like a big deal, but it can be when running out of time is _also_ a threat.”

Stretch’s hands tightened around the lip of the desk. 

“We need to retrace your memories.”

Stretch shook his head. “I barely remember them. An’ the me… in _here_ …” he tapped his temple, “can’t remember memories until they’ve happened in That Place.”

“Like Sisyphus.” 

“Don’t speak loser, Doc.”

Harvey waved the insult off. Stretch was getting more anxious. The more anxious he was, the more he’d begin to try and needle. “It’s a myth. Rolling a boulder up a hill for eternity, never getting it to the top. It was a part of a system to teach Sisyphus a lesson”

The violet eyes flashed. The lights above them flickered. “You’re sayin’-”

“I’m saying that the place where he was, where Casper is, works in that way for a reason. It must.” He looked down at his notes again, tapping his pen against the page at a steady rhythm. There were notes about _Between, Another Whipstaff, raised brother's child?_ There were more beyond that, a few almost illegible in his excitement to get them on the page. 

Beneath it all, circled a few times- the four letter world. 

Something began to click together. 

“He can’t remember…” The hairs on his arms were rising. “When he comes here, he can’t remember.”

“That’s what I-”

“Shut up.” Harvey stood, looking at a far off point in the room, ignoring Stretch’s ahaust expression. “Shut up. I’m thinking.” 

His mind was running fast, tracking through every single thought and idea he could manage to drag up. 

Stretch watched him. 

Watched him begin to pace. 

Watched his feet moving across the papers littering the floor. 

Watched him scrub his eyes and hair and face, muttering under his breath. 

“He can’t remember _out here_ …” he muttered. “Can’t remember-”

“Doc?”

“He can’t-”

“Doc!” 

Harvey spun around. His eyes flashed and he jutted his arms out so quickly, hitting them against the desk with enough force to startle the ghost from his seat. “He _can’t remember here!”_

“That’s what we’ve been sayin’!”

“But _why_.” Harvey sat again grabbing his notebook up. He began to scribble down his thoughts as fast as he could manage. “What did my wife say again there? About bringing memories back?”

“She said…” Stretch listened to another voice somewhere around him. “He wasn’t allowed. Couldn’t bring back anythin’ with’m. Against the rules.”

“What _rules?”_

“I…” The ghost began to answer, listening to the other voice. His shoulders dropped. “I don’t know. S’fuckin’ _unfair_. If we could figure it out, we’d have him back by now. Wouldn’t be in an office tearing it to all Hell.”

“That’s the thing,” said Harvey. It felt wrong to grin in the moment. He couldn’t help it. “I think I know why.” Turning the notebook around, he showed the ghost his most current notes. They were almost unreadable, but two words stood out. 

_Memory_

_Protect_

“Psychologically speaking,” Harvey began, “memories are absolutely _ridiculous_. They’re these things we use and shift and change and keep, but our brains rarely have space for them all. I assume it’s the same after we die.”

“Sure,” Stretch began, slowly. “Fatso’s forgotten a thing or two. Stinkie’d forget which way was Up if we weren’t around ta’ show’m.”

“Right. Exactly. It’s why we take pictures. Make drawings. Keep things.” He gestured around towards the paper ridden floor. “To _remember_ . But here’s the kicker. Psychologically speaking, forgetting is _also_ important.” He shifted forward in his seat, the words pouring out. “Forgetting happens, sometimes, to make room for new memories. Like I said. It’s why we keep things on hand. Sometimes we just forget because we’ve changed places and left our thoughts behind, like when we walk through a door.” He twisted the pen around in his fingers. “But sometimes we forget as a way to protect.”

“Protect…?”

“Protect,” Harvey echoed, nodding. “Stephen’s memories in this world may be a way to protect himself. Or rather… _you_.” 

Stretch clenched his jaw, sitting straighter in the chair. “I don’t need fuckin’ protection. I need my _nephew.”_

“Now you say that! But what about a few hours ago. Hell. A few days ago.”

Stretch’s jaw twitched again. 

“Stretch… you’ve been protecting yourself for _years_ against these memories.”

“So?”

“So!” Harvey’s mind was spinning. “It’s become an impulse. A _habit_ . A way to build walls.” He watched the breathless ghost across from him. “Stephen told me that when you arrived here, in Whipstaff, you remembered. Even if you _didn’t know it_ -” he said quickly when Stretch went to correct him. “Even if you didn’t know, you did. Because there were feelings, weren’t there. Emotions.” 

The ghost swallowed, struck still. 

“Stretch?”

“Yes,” he ground out. “There were.”

Harvey tapped the words in the notebook. “Pain, he said. Hurt. _Anger_. And loss. And it was always when you looked at something. Like your brothers are doing right now.”

“Yes.” Stretch’s voice sounded pained. 

“What was it.”

“You already know.”

“I want you to say it.”

Violet eyes bored into his, howling betrayal. Above their heads, the lightbulbs flickered angrily. The papers littering the room fluttered in a wind that rose up from nowhere. When he spoke again, it was if he were ripping the word from his tongue. “…Casper.”

“That’s right,” breathed Harvey. “Casper. You almost remembered because of _Casper_ . He was always here. Always around. And for _some reason_ , it hurt you. And so you buried it. And when you buried those memories? That part of you went with them.” 

“Stephen.” Stretch’s voice was frayed, tightly wired and snapping at the ends. “Yeah. I did. Until…”

“ _Exactly_ .” Harvey grabbed hold of the world, listing off each following statement like a bullet through water. “Until. Until now. Until this moment. Until you saw those pictures of your brother. Until Casper vanished to _that place_ . _”_

Harvey’s ideas were beginning to drop into place, one after the other. 

Like a little, magnetic train. 

“And then he was back.”

“I know,” Stretch snarled. His fists were tight on the desktop. “Ya keep _sayin’_ that. But that ain’t gonna bring Casper back! Because he’s stuck in- in that-”

“In that place,” Harvey finished. “Stretch… you act like you don’t have control here. Like you can’t remember because memories were taken from you. But you’ve been burying memories for years. Like I said. People do that to _protect_. They bury memories to build walls. And you did that. You built walls.”

“If this is some sort’a metaphor-”

“That’s the thing,” said Harvey, feeling more breathless by the moment. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “I don’t think it is a metaphor this time. You put your other half somewhere to protect yourself.”

“What are you sayin’.”

“I’m saying, Stretch, that you built walls. And you built enough of them to create a place to store memories.”

The lights above them flashed. 

“Stretch. You’re in more control of finding what you need than you think. Because that place Casper is trapped… I think it might be yours.” 

* * *

The festivities continued. Outside, the snow tapped the glass, piling up on the ground. Inside, the warmth only blossomed. Christmas Crackers were passed out and silver confetti burst in corners, children donning paper crowns and running through the halls. 

The pair of deceased observers watched from a distance, standing on the outside of the crowd. 

Amelia had somehow managed to grab herself a cup of cider and was sipping it. 

“I thought we couldn’t interact,” Casper said.

“We can’t interact with anything _consequential_. And it’s been so long since I’ve had a drink.” She reached over and snagged another glass from a passing tray. “Do you want any? I won’t tell anyone.”

“M’fine,” he snapped. “ _Thanks_.”

She grinned behind the rim. 

They watched as some of the staff mingled, drinking and laughing, as their kids tumbled around. 

“You don’t look like you’re having fun. I thought this would make you happy. It’s _cheerful_.” 

“But it’s fake.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “Right. I forgot. None of this is real.”

“No,” he said. “Not what you showed me before. Especially not what you’re showing me now.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes,” he snipped. “Really.” 

The memory of Casper was back, flitting through the room, and tripped over a fallen garland before his eldest Uncle came out of nowhere to catch him fast by the back of his suit. 

_Jeez, short stuff! Watch where you’re going!_

_Sorry, Uncle Stephen!_

_Circus won’t take clumsy kids,_ he chortled. _C’mon. Let’s get some hot chocolate in your hand, yeah?_

_Yes!_

His fists lay flat at his sides. “Can’t we just… go? New memory or something?” He glared at the people. At the festivities. “You keep dragging me to things.”

“Interesting verb choice.”

“I’d rather not see… fake stuff.”

“Interesting adjective choice.”

“You’re trying to sway me.”

“No,” she said. “I’m not.” She looked out at the garlands and the candles and the spiced wine. “At the end of our time together, Casper-”

“You’ve _told_ me,” he snapped, too loudly. He looked around at the crowd, almost expecting people to be turning their heads towards the noise, but they continued to mull around, unseeing. He lowered his voice anyway. “ _You told me_ ,” he whispered. “I have a choice to make at midnight-”

“Never said midnight,” she said. “Just told you it was to a certain time.” He gave her a look, and she held up her hand. “Apologies. Go on.” 

“I have a choice to make _at a certain time_.”

“Correct.”

“And at that point, I’ll need to choose between my life _before_ -”

“Right.”

“-or my _real_ memories.”

“Another interesting word choice.” 

He lifted his chin. “I know what I’m choosing.”

“That’s fine. But you do have to make that choice at some point. And to make a choice, you need to see everything I can show you. So.” She extended an arm. “Shall we? There’s more.”

Casper glared over the crowd. 

The record player scratched out its last note and someone flipped it. A new tune burst out, bright and cheery. 

He nodded silently and followed her along, ignoring the voice and the feeling of _familiar_. 

_This is real._

_This is real._

_This is real_.

 _It's not_ , he thought back, as hard as they could. 

It couldn't be. 

* * *

Casper watched reluctantly as the party kept on. 

Watched as the wine ran out and the last of the records were spun and flipped again. 

Watched as the children began to tire out. 

Including the memory of himself, tipping over on his feet and shaking himself back awake until, eventually, one of his Uncles wandered by and took his hand, going from guest to guest to thank them for coming. 

The candles were burnt down to stubs and snuffed out, and the party went with it. Every surface was littered with plates and cups and bits of silver confetti. Adults bundled for the chill of December in Maine were wrangling tired-wired children into coats and hats. 

Franklin held the door as the families filed out, Casper hanging on his side. As they waved off the stragglers and closed the door, he ran a hand over the boy’s hair. “We throw a mean party, don’t we, short stuff?”

Casper nodded, tucking in closer. “The _best_.”

From the foyer, the two spirits watched the man dip down to pluck the boy up into his arms. The distinct sound of an exasperated Boston accent floated out from the library and Franklin chuckled. “What now?”

Back in the library, Stephen was standing in front of a table in abject disarray with his arms stretched out while Ms. Danvers shook a finger at him. “If you would _just-_ ”

“Not a chance, Nell - it’s Christmas Eve for Christ’s sake. Yer not touchin’ _any_ ’a this.”

“It’ll be three times as hard to get the food off the plates if they don’t soak overnight!” she countered. “Which you would know if you’d ever washed a dish in your life!”

By the fireplace, Samuel snickered as he slid the screen aside to add another log. “She’s got’cha there, oh fearless leader.”

For a long moment the two of them stood, hard stares locked. And then Stephen dropped his arms with a sigh. “Fi- _iiiii_ -ine. But yer not doin’ it alone.”

“Like I’d trust you not to drop the good china all over the marble floor,” she scoffed, but she let him gather up what she couldn’t hold, and, arms full, the pair of them made for the doors-

-where they came to a halt, as Franklin and Casper blocked their path. “Well, well, well,” the big man said, eyes dancing. “What’ve we got here? Couple ‘a turtle doves smack dab under the mistletoe.”

Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “ _Franklin.”_

But his brother just kept on smiling, turning to the boy in his arms. “You know what that means, right, Cas?”

The almost-six-year-old snickered. “You gotta kiss ‘er, Uncle Stephen. S’the rules.”

Beneath the festooned archway, the man raised an eyebrow at the woman, ears red. She pursed her lips, then gave a curt nod, offering her cheek to him. Awkwardly, the dishes in his arms clinking precariously, he dipped down and placed the quickest, most chaste kiss possible upon it. When he straightened up, the rest of his face matched his ears. “Ya happy now?”

“Hmmmm,” Franklin shifted the boy in his arms. “Whadda ya think, Cas? Should we keep torturin’ ‘im or go open a couple’a presents early?”

“Presents! Presents!” Little Casper bounced.

“Yer off the hook, love birds.” 

With a dramatic bow that had Casper clinging for dear life to his uncle’s suit vest, giggling breathlessly, he let them pass, Stephen pausing to turn and yell back, “ _an’ stop carryin’ him for Christ’s sake! His legs’ll fall off if he doesn’t use’m_.” 

The ghost and his guide followed the memory of the boy as he was carried to the tree. Amelia took a seat at the desk that would someday be her husband’s. Casper hovered above it, trying to appear disinterested.

“How many can I open now?” the living boy asked as he was returned to the floor. “I mean, isn’t Santa bringing more for tomorrow? Technically, I could open _all_ of-”

“Better watch it, bulb head,” Samuel warned from his wingback chair. “Talk like that’ll have Santa sailing straight past us.”

Blue eyes wide, the boy clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Don’t scare the kid, Sammy,” Franklin chided, taking a seat in the chair next to his brother’s. “How ‘bout you pick three for tonight, okay?”

The boy was kneeling by the pile under the tree as the eldest brother returned to the room, brushing crumbs from his suit jacket.

“There’s one from Father!”

Samuel and Franklin whipped round to look at Stephen. 

Casper didn’t look at the other presents he’d plucked, teetering to his feet to hold the rectangle close. “He said he might be coming,” he piped up, grinning. “Tomorrow! He wasn’t here _tonight_ but-”

“Cas…” Stephen was standing. “How about we save that one? For tomorrow-”

But Casper was already ripping off the brown paper, gleaming at the cover ( _Robinson Crusoe_ ) before cracking open the cover. “He wrote a note!”

“ _Casper_.”

But it was too late. 

“You were a great reader. You started early. Your Uncle made sure of it,” said Amelia. “He always wanted you to be able to have every ability, even when it hurt you.” 

Casper watched the memory of himself freeze. Watched him sink. “What did it say?” 

“The same thing that was written in the book he sent for your fifth birthday. What it would _always_ say. In every present before, and ever present after this one. Every time. Always.” She watched the little boy. “It would say that he was busy. That he was abruptly called away or that he needed to extend a trip. That he was very sorry, and that he wouldn’t be there.” She looked like she was sinking, too. “This time he was in France. See? The little post mark on top."

Casper did see. And he saw the boy pull the little potscard from the middle, letting it drop to the floor. The Eiffel tower stared back at them from the front.

"He always ended it the same way. _Always_ with; Next year in Whipstaff.” 

“He’s coming.” He was surprised by how raw his own voice was. “He’ll be here.”

“You’d get one on your next birthday-”

“No.”

“-and next Christmas, too.”

“ _No_.”

“When you completed each year of school, you’d get another and another and another.”

“You’re lying.” The scene around him blurred, and he wiped his eyes.

Watched the little boy drowning in front of him. 

“This was not your first one,” Amelia said. “But it was the one that made you realizeAnd it broke you. For a good moment, it _broke_ you.”

And he was.

Broken.

Casper touched his own, aching chest. 

An awful ache.

A wrenching ache.

A _familiar_ ache.

 _This is_ _real_ , the awful voice said again. _And you know it_. 

He didn't want to know. He didn't. 

But the familiar was impossibly strong, and he felt like he was drowning beneath it. 

Amelia offered him some rescue with a hand on his shoulder. She nodded towards the scene. "Keep watching." 

Franklin was on his feet, moving purposefully towards the tree. “Aw, s’too dark fer readin’ anyway - but this light is _just_ perfect-” He plucked a large box in golden paper from the pile. “-for what’s in here. C’mon, short stuff. Lemme show ya something _really_ neat.”

The boy hesitated, chewing his bottom lip, eyes still brimming.

His uncle patted the box. “Not gonna make me unwrap it by myself, are ya? Hmm?”

Slowly, haltingly, the child approached, curiosity piqued _just_ enough. He sniffled and wiped his eyes. Together they tore the shiny paper to reveal-

“A...magic lantern?” little Casper read the packaging, one eyebrow quirked. “It’s not really magic…” he trailed off, looked up at his uncle, “...is it?”

“As we say in the business, _all_ magic is practical. C’mon, lemme show ya.”

While the other two watched, the actor and the boy extracted what looked like an oil lamp whose glass cloche had been traded for one of cast iron. They set it on an end table, went back to the box. Found a lens attached to an ornate pedestal. A thin cardboard box that, when the boy opened it, spilled out- “Slides?”

Franklin nodded, patting his vest pockets. “Damn, lighter’s in my coat. Stretch, gimme yours.”

Stephen was watching with such rapt attention he didn’t even protest the nickname, just slipped a hand into his coat and handed the lighter to his brother.

“So,” Franklin said as he lit the wick inside. “Where do we wanna go first? Africa? Asia?”

The boy was cross-legged on the floor, squinting at the stiff squares in his lap. He held one up. “The Sta...statue of Library?”

“Liberty,” Franklin corrected, chuckling. “That’s a good one. Right here in the U.S. of A. Bring it over.”

Hand over hand, they slipped the slide into the slot behind the lens.

Eased the lens into place in front of the lamp.

Across the room, a projection of an image filled the wall. A bronze woman, towering over a harbor, holding a torch high.

Casper nearly tumbled forward, grinning. His face still shone, but his tears were mostly forgotten, and he barely noticed when Franklin reached over and swiped at his face. “It’s _there_!” He pointed, hands shaking. “Uncle Stephen-”

“Yeah, kid,” his Uncle rose from the armchair, looking between the child with the tear-marked face, the book lying on the floor, and his brother besides the projector. He wandered closer, watching the boy. He seemed to be relieved. 

And concerned. 

Immediately the boy called for _another!_

The bronze woman vanished, replaced by a lion.

Then a snow-topped mountain.

Then the Taj Mahal.

Then the Eiffel Tower.

“Paris.” The boy’s smile slipped from his face. He glanced back towards the book on the floor.

Like an electric current, the realization swept through all three brothers instantaneously. Franklin swiped the slide away, scrambled for another.

But the boy was already on his feet. Eyes on the floor, he turned and walked from the room.

Samuel looked towards Franklin, a little desperate. 

“I didn’t mean to!” Franklin was sweeping up the slides, shoving them back into the box. “I swear. Didn’t even _think_ about it. It was stupid-”

“It _wasn’t_. J.T.’s the idiot.” Stephen put down his drink. “Just give me a minute with him, yeah?”

Samuel looked towards the library doors where the boy had moved through and gnawed his lip, turning back towards his eldest brother. “Maybe if we get another present? Keep his mind off things?”

Stephen cut him off. He stubbed out his cigar. “Won’t work.” He was moving towards the library doors. 

Franklin, still beside the magic lantern, stood. “You sure that’s the best thing?”

But his brother had already strode through, closing them behind him, leaving the two brothers to turn towards one another, concern heavy between them. 

“The hell’s he gonna tell ‘im?” Samuel hissed, barely above a whisper.

“Knowing Stephen?” Franklin said, practically heaving himself into his chair. “The truth.”

“Fuck.”

Casper, the ache still heavy in his chest, turned to Amelia.

“Go on.” She waved him off.

So he went, phasing through the closed doors.

* * *

The boy was sitting on the staircase farthest from the library on the right side in the foyer. 

The man folded himself down to sit on the step near his nephew, too-long legs extended. 

“So,” he said, voice echoing in the quiet. “That was a pretty neat present, huh?”

Silence. 

“You can show me how it works tomorrow, yeah?” He reached down to nudge the boy's shoulder. “Teach an old man a trick or two?”

Nothing. 

He sighed. “You know your Uncle Franklin’ didn’t mean-”

“He’s not coming…”

“What’s that, bulbhead?”

The little boy's voice was made of ice. “He’s not coming,” he said again, “is he?” 

The man looked down at him. “No,” he said, finally. “He’s not.”

Casper looked at the floor. A few tears hung off his chin and dropped onto the step below. “He did that in the summer And he did it again now.” He paused, breath hitching. “He forgets to call, too.” 

“Yeah, Cas. I know he does.”

“... _why?”_

Stephen struggled a moment, searching for the words before settling on, “I don’t know.”

Watery eyes looked up at him from beneath clumped lashes. “He doesn’t want me.”

“Aw, kid.” Stephen’s arms extended out. “C’mere.” 

The child didn’t waste a moment, crawling up and letting himself be drawn in close, shoulders shaking when long arms wrapped around him. 

They sat there for a few minutes. The quiet blanketed everything; as heavy as the snow outside. Streamers. Garlands. Velvet. Silver confetti. And the boy drifted in the middle of it all, clinging to his Uncle like a raft in the storm. 

The Ghost of Casper tried to look away. Couldn’t. 

Watched a version of himself dragged into his Uncle’s lap, face hidden in the shoulder of his wool suit. 

“He _does_ want ya’, Cas-”

“You don’t know that,” the boy cried, muffled by wool. 

There was a pause. Stephen rested his chin against the blonde curls. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t.”

Casper’s back shuddered as he dragged in another, sobbing breath. 

“I just hope he does. S’all I can do.” He wound his arms tighter. “Might be personal bias though, because _I_ know you’re worth wantin’, an’ anyone who didn’t think so wouldn’ have their damn head on straight.”

The boy shuddered again, choking on a noise. 

Long fingers worked fruitlessly to smooth down his hair. 

“I wish I could tell ya’ what your father was thinkin’. Wish I could tell ya’ what he meant by everythin’. Or that he was plannin' on shapin' up and visitin'. Or that he wanted to. Wish I could tell ya’ lots of things.” 

The boy sniffled. The man just shifted him closer. “You know what I can tell ya’?”

The boy shook his head, face still pressed into the shoulder of the nice suit where a wet patch was steadily growing. 

“I can tell ya’ that you ain’t alone. You’ve got Uncle Franklin here. An’ your Uncle Sammy. And everyone who came tonight-”

“And you?” Casper croaked. 

“Damn right, me.” There was a pause. A moment. And from afar, the ghost of Casper saw something that had been spinning for some time behind his Uncle’s eyes click into place. His hands tightened around the boy’s back. “An’ I ain’t goin’ _nowhere_.”

The ghost of Casper touched his chest. Something ached and twisted. The feeling was a sharp one. A surprising one. 

A terrible one. 

A _familiar_ one. 

He watched the boy sitting with his Uncle, and it swept over him just as it did the child. 

The familiar loneliness. Disappointment. Betrayal. 

Emptiness. 

Amelia appeared by his side.

“This is real.”

“Yes.”

“All of this-”

“Yes.”

“He wasn't here, was he…?”

“No,” she said. “Not yet, at least. Not in the ways that mattered.” 

"So… all my memories?"

She didn't answer.

His eyes were filling again, and he looked away. Another hand slipped into his own, and he squeezed it hard. 

Even as the loneliness continued to wash over him, there was something else, another feeling lapping at him beneath each cresting blow.

Invisible arms were squeezing him. Something rough brushed his cheek.

A memory of a feeling, foreign like a blanket, draped over him, and he tried to follow it. A strange feeling. The memory of a bitter ache eased.

Shifted.

Became bitter _sweet_.

He swallowed past it, but it didn’t loosen its claws. 

So he let it linger, wondering after it while his own head spun.

On the steps, the memory of his Uncle still held the boy. The child had stopped shuddering; worn out and hollow. He sniffled, drawing away. His Uncle slipped a handkerchief from his pocket, scrubbing carefully at the small, flushed face. 

“I think,” he said, “that’s probably enough presents for one night, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Casper said, voice still split into shards. “Prob’ly.” He sniffled, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand.

“Thinkin’ it might be bedtime.”

“Can I stay up with you?”

Stephen hesitated. 

“ _Please?”_

“An’ if some fat geezer tries to wiggle down the chimney?”

“I’ll close my eyes,” Casper promised, solemnly. He blinked his red, stinging eyes, looking wrung out. “He won’t know I was awake.”

“Alright.” With a groan, he lifted the kid up with him, shifting him into his arms, Casper’s head resting against his shoulder. “Hope he has a new suit in that magic bag’a his. Looks like you toasted this one.”

“Doesn’t mean you can send me to the circus, though.” He sniffled, playing with a button on Stephen’s suit. “I don’t know any tricks.”

Stephen stopped in the middle of the foyer to laugh. 

The ghost of Casper, watching the memory, jerked back. 

He’d never heard that before. 

A genuine, rib-rattling laugh. 

He watched his Uncle shake his head, grinning. “You’re somethin’ else. You know that?”

“Mmmhm.”

“Zoo’s still open though.”

“ _No!”_

The both of them were smiling when they returned to the tree and the fireplace and the uncles, who both sprang to their feet.

Franklin spoke first. “Cas, listen, I didn’t-”

“S’ok, Uncle Franklin,” the boy said, cutting him off. His head still rested comfortably on Stephen’s shoulder. “I like my present. An’ I love you.”

The big man’s eyes welled and he closed the distance between them in two strides, gathering up both his nephew _and_ his brother in a hug. “Love you too, kid.” He nuzzled in closer to kiss the boy’s cheek.

“An’ Uncle Stephen?”

Franklin pulled back just enough to grin. He didn’t let either of them go. “ _‘Course_ I do,” he declared. And though the older brother squirmed, the younger succeeded in loudly and dramatically kissing _his_ cheek, too (and was met with a threat of _can’t act if ya’ don’t have teeth_ ). He released them both as the boy giggled, still sniffling, and took a step back. “Lookit you, Stephen - kid’s legs are gonna fall off if you keep cartin’ ‘im around like that.”

The response he got from _both_ of them was a tightening of arms around each other. Stephen rolled his eyes. “Lay off. It’s Christmas.” He moved towards his vacated chair. “Pour me another drink while you’re up, will ya?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

As they sat, Samuel leaned over the arm of his chair towards them. “So everything’s, uh-”

“We’re _fine_ ,” Stephen said shortly, grunting as the almost-six-year-old wriggled around getting comfortable in his lap. He darted a glance over the floor. “Where the-?”

“Up on a shelf.”

“Good. Thanks.”

Franklin returned with filled tumblers and the three of them settled back in, relighting cigars.

They talked quietly. Franklin gave some details on his new show (a musical) and Samuel explained that his University was moving him to a bigger office where he’d have to deal with fewer people (thankfully). Stephen listened and nodded at all the right moments, holding the boy to him still, hand moving up and down against his spine.

Casper, floating by Amelia, watched it all. Couldn’t look away. 

Not when the boy snuggled closer, or reached into his Uncle’s suit pocket and pulled out his pocket watch, seeming to know exactly where to find it. He flipped it open and closed, watching the time tick by behind the domed glass, tracing the inscription on the lid. 

_To our fearless leader - Your Brothers_

From where Casper was floating, watching himself, he could see the little grooves that had been planted into the gold from little fingers moving over it again and again, like patches on a well worn security blanket. 

“Christmas present from a few years ago,” Stephen muttered, reaching down to move a curl of hair away from Casper’s face. “Coupl’a morons thinkin’ they were real funny.”

“Because we are!” Samuel sang, pouring more whiskey for himself and Franklin (and finally Stephen after he glared hard enough). “Our fearless leader needed somethin’ ta’ remind us we were around.”

“Especially before he wised up an’ started havin’ us around!” 

Stephen rolled his eyes, his ears turning red. 

“I like it,” Casper peeped, rubbing his thumb over the words. “S’nice.”

“Least the kid’s got taste,” bellowed Franklin, grinning. “Gonna have ta’ get him his own. Clip it right onto his union suit. He’ll never need to wear clothes again!”

Casper grinned, turning pink. When his Uncles kept heckling, he ended up with his face hidden in Stephen’s coat. His eldest Uncle came to his rescue with a lighthearted, “alright, leave the little streaker alone,” giving Casper’s hair a comforting little tug. 

He handed Casper the watch again once he’d emerged from the lining of his jacket, leaning down to rest his chin in the mess of curls. 

“I still like it,” Casper said, stubbornness not unlike the man above him. “Is it a… _hair loom?”_

Franklin’s brow rose. “Say that again, bulbhead?” 

“Hair. Loom.” Casper traced his thumb along the words in the watch. “Benji told me about them. Said they’re things that you get when people get too old to hold things.”

“ _What?”_

“You know,” said Casper, looking at his Uncles like he was frustrated explaining the obvious. “Like… a necklace or a pocket watch or somethin’. When you can’t hold it anymore. Because you get _old_.” 

“Oh!” Sammy grinned. “ _Heirloom_.”

“Yea! Hair. Loom.”

“ _Heirloom_ ,” Stephen said. 

Casper repeated it back, only a little more correctly. 

“Nah, this ain’t one’a those.” Stephen moved the watch, clicking it closed. “And I might need to give you an’ Benji a vocabulary lesson at some point. I ain’t gettin’ that weak any time soon.”

Casper squinted up at him. “You sure?”

“No. Might need ta’ push you off me.”

“No!”

“Then I guess I’m fine.” He flicked Casper’s brow. 

Samuel, from his chair, was shifting. Shoulders straightening out, eyes bright. “Heirlooms,” he said, sounding a little too much like he was lecturing a group of exhausted University students, “are somethin’ passed down. They’re a father to son thing. S’a mark of family.” 

Casper’s mouth was shaped like an ‘o’. He looked across at his Uncle. “Do I have any?” 

“Not sure, kid. S’not really my place, especially since they’re between father’s an’ son’s an’ yours is-”

Stephen cleared his throat loudly, and Samuel, realizing his mistake, pulled back quickly, rethinking his words. “Our family has a few, though, yeah.”

“We do?”

“Mmmhm. Oh! You gotta show the kid the knife, Stephen!”

The ghost of Casper looked back to Amelia. “ _What knife?”_

She gestured towards the scene again, where Stephen was nodding, rooting in his pants pocket, drawing it out. 

Casper recognized it instantly. 

“From the pool room,” he said. “The memory! When he stayed!” 

Amelia nodded, putting a finger to her lips.

Stephen twisted the knife around, careful to keep the blade tucked in the metal body. He showed it to Casper, who looked at it starry eyed. “It’s so pretty…” the boy said. He reached out and touched the filigree with tiny fingers. 

The body of the knife was ivory ("elephant tusk," Stephen pointed out), inlaid with gold plaiting and swirls. 

Against the top, a word was carved in sweeping letters. 

_McFadden_

“Eh. S’alright.” Said Stephen. 

“It’s priceless,” Franklin assured the captivated boy. S’real old, too.” 

“Super old? Casper touched the name carefully. 

“Very,” said Stephen.

“S’an an heirloom,” Samuel explained, proudly. “A century or two old now. Not many families got that!”

“So it’s a- a hair… loom?”

“ _Heirloom_ ,” Samuel laughed. 

“An’ it belongs to Uncle Stephen?”

“S’right.” 

Stephen scoffed. “It’s just one’a those trinkets stuffy idiots with sticks up their asses do ta’ make their fam’lies look good.” 

“Don’t listen to him, Cas!” Franklin called, leaning over his armrest. “Stephen’s just bitter because it’s one more thing he’s got to carry around.” 

Beside Amelia, Casper floated closer to the scene. The little ghost tilted his head, looking at the knife from a distance. “I’ve never seen that at home…?”

Amelia walked up to meet him. “Never?”

“I didn’t even know we _had_ heirlooms.” He kept his eyes on the sheathed knife held between spindly fingers. “And my Uncles don’t really care about anything in the house anyway. I usually need to sweep up what they break.”

She hummed. With a jerk of her head, she led him to a better angle. “Your family was an old one, with a lot to pass on. Its name, its home, and its _trinkets_.” 

He huffed a laugh. In front of him, the three Uncles in the memory were bickering over how old the knife was. 

“But he’d never get to pass it on…”

“What’s that, dear?” Amelia tilted her face to watch Casper, the curls of her hair drifting across her shoulders. 

“Uncle Ste- Uncle _Stretch_ couldn’t pass it on.”

She lifted a brow. “Why not?”

“Because the only one to have a kid was _my dad_.”

She nodded slowly, ruminating over his logic. “I suppose that’s true.” 

“It’s probably why I never found it at home. If he threw it out or gave it away or lost it-”

“Shhh.” She touched his shoulder. “Just _watch_.” 

In the memory, the living Casper pushed off Stephen’s chest to examine the knife, enraptured. Stephen carefully took the boy’s hand with his free one. “Here. Palm out. Careful. Leave it closed.” He flattened out the child’s fingers and deposited the knife into his hand. The little boy gently twisted it this way and that, while the ghost of him watched on. 

There was a feeling against his own palm, and the ghost of Casper frowned, scrubbing it against his side. 

“You alright?” Amelia asked. 

He just nodded, looking down at his empty hands. The cool weight remained. 

In front of him, the scene was continuing on. 

“It belonged to our grandpa’," Stephen was explaining, picking up his glass to take a drink, watching the hand holding the knife. "Nasty bastard. Passed it to his eldest son. _Your_ grandfather. Our Pa'.”

“Also a nasty bastard,” Samuel muttered into his glass. 

“An’ he passed it to _his_ eldest son,” Stephen continued. 

“You?” asked Casper, turning it around again in his hand. 

“Another nasty bastard,” Franklin whispered to Samuel, grinning. He got a sneer in return. 

Stephen ignored them. “Mmmhm. Right. Me, when I was 13.”

“Nearly poked his eye out,” Franklin crowed.

“Shaddup, bonehead!” 

Casper ignored their squabble, turning the little sheathed knife over again. _McFadden_ winked up at him. He dragged his thumb across the word, mouthing the name. 

_His_ name. 

“So pretty,” he said again, ending the spat between his Uncles. Stephen’s attention drifted back down to the boy in his lap, and from where he stood beside Amelia, Casper could see an expression on the mans face that he couldn’t identify, as important and lasting as the little knife between the boy’s fingers. 

“It’ll be yours next.” 

Franklin nearly dropped his glass, catching it before it could tumble to the floor. Samuel’s head whipped towards his eldest brother, huge eyes fixing on him and the boy in his lap. 

The ghost nearby lurched backwards. A hand on his shoulder steadied him and he looked up. Amelia was still watching the moment in front of her with an unbroken focus. 

“Amelia,” he said, voice shaking. “He-”

“Watch,” she said. 

“But he-”

“Hush, Casper,” she said, gently. And then, again; “ _Watch_.”

He shakily turned back towards the moment. 

Of the man. Of the boy. Of the words between them. 

The boy holding the knife didn’t notice his other two Uncle’s watching them. Didn’t realize the meaning of what had just occurred. Instead, he looked up at his Uncle Stephen like the man had plucked down the stars. “ _Really_?” 

Watching himself, Casper swallowed. 

_Not real_ , he reminded. _Not real, not real, not real_. 

But a voice in the back of his head, getting louder each time, whispered back louder than he could ignore. 

_What if it is?_

“Mmmhm. When you’re 13, bulbhead.” He picked the object up off the boy’s hand, putting it back into his pocket saying something about _last thing I need is you choppin' off a finger and ruinin' my new suit_.

The ghost of Casper barely heard him. And the memories of his Uncle's looked about the same, still looking between one another, back at the little scene wordlessly, until Stephen finally noticed and barked, "you two need somethin'?" And they quickly looked away to refill their glasses.

* * *

The night went on. 

Casper and Amelia stood in the background, watching from a distance.

 _This is real_ , was all he could think, staring at the Uncle’s as the night got later and later. 

_This is real, this is real, this is real_. 

His father wasn’t here. No notes. No letters. 

And his Uncle Stretch was staying. 

He felt like he wanted to dip away and hide in the shadows, but the memory kept him there. It was the happiest he’d seen the little family. Just hours ago, his Uncle Stretch had burned his fathers image in a fire. 

And now, the memory of himself clung to the man like no such thing were possible. 

Franklin got up at one point to reenact part of the first act of his new play _The Grand Duchess of Gérolstein_. 

Samuel, happily toasted, gave a discombobulated lecture on the importance of soil nutricion. 

They lit new cigars, puffing away until the room got hazy. Stephen blew a smoke ring before giving Casper a serious look before saying, “don’t ya’ ever start, ya hear me?”

“But you do it!”

“Cuz yer Uncles are all lunkheads and you ain’t.”

“Yet!” Franklin called over his glass. 

Stephen threw an ashtray at his head. 

Stephen did, however, let Casper try the brandy. The boy pulled such a violent face that his Uncle Samuel nearly choked on his own drink. 

There was some more soft conversation after that. About work. About what they could do before everyone went their separate ways again after New Years.

Casper got a few words in, too, talking about what they were learning in school, but his voice dipped after a few minutes, tiredly drifting.

Between drinks, Stephen kept his arm around the boy, playing absently with the blonde hair. Gradually the little body grew heavier.

From the opposite chair, Franklin chuckled softly. “Konked right out.” He took a puff from his cigar. “That was some magic trick you did out there.”

Stephen picked up his drink. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“‘Course ya do.” The younger brother leaned his elbow on the armrest. “For a man who says he’s not warm and fuzzy, you sure seem soft enough from over here.”

“Can it.”

From the other side, Samuel leaned in too. “Seriously, man. Hour ago the kid’s whole world was falling out from under ‘im, an’ now lookit ‘im.”

A quick glance down at the drooped blonde head and Stephen’s face flushed. “Just did what I had to.”

“And better than either of _us_ could’ve,” Franklin said. He pulled at his cigar, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth. “What’d you tell the kid?”

“Nothin’ he couldn’t handle.”

When his brother gave him a long look, Stephen cleared his throat, tapping his own cigar against the ashtray. “He’s smart. He’ll figure it out, so there ain’t no use in painting pretty colors over a shit storm. So I told him the bastard wasn’ comin’.”

Samuel leaned on his armrest. “ _Stephen_.”

“S’not like he hasn’t started guessin’, Sammy. He figured it out over the summer. An’ it’s better he starts wrappin’ his head around the idea before the next gift-wrapped-neglect shows up at the door. And it _will_ show up.” 

Samuel nodded, letting out a breath. “When he first had the kid, I didn’ think… I mean… Didn’t think he’d just…” 

Stephen scoffed, shifting the kid again, smoothing the flat of his palm down his spine. “J.T. never stuck around for that sort’a stuff. Barely cared enough to check in with _us_ every few years. I mean, we barely even knew Emily outside the _weddin’_.”

“Yeah, well,” Franklin stood, grabbing the decanter of brandy and bringing it over, refilling their glasses. “You know how things were between you two.”

“He just didn’ like what I was servin’.” He saluted Franklin with his glass. “Never did.”

“You left Whipstaff.”

“Wasn’t anything here for me.”

“Told him he was yellow bellied for sticking around and doin’ what our Pa’ wanted.”

“Wasn’t wrong. He’s still a fuckin’ coward.”

Samuel snorted. “You never mince your words.”

“You got somethin’ to say about it, _Sammy_?”

His younger brother held up his hands. 

Franklin poured himself more brandy. “J.T. never liked that. Two of you buttin’ heads about who was in charge of _this_ and _that_ and whatever.” He looked over at his eldest brother, and the child in his lap. “I think he figured he one-upped you by gettin’ hitched an’ havin’ a son.”

Samuel nodded. “We didn’t even know this one was born ‘till the newspaper showed up.”

“Mmm. Playin’ the role of the golden father. Doesn’t even realize-” Stephen stopped himself. He took a drink, looking down at the boy, checking to see if he was asleep. Casper’s chest rose up and down slowly, mouth half open. The eldest took another long drink. Set his glass on the side table. The sound of the grandfather clock in the room was echoing. “Told ‘im I’d stay.”

Samuel had been reaching for the crystal bottle of brandy when the words broke through the room’s silence. His hand stilled. “Didn’t catch that.”

“You _did_.”

Samuel swallowed, eyes boring a hole into his eldest brother. Beside him, Franklin’s breath had stalled. “Say it again, then.” 

“I _told_ him I’d _stay_.” Stephen’s jaw twitched. 

“You’re _staying_.”

“I’m staying.” The fireplace was crackling, and the light from the hearth made their faces glow. “Was already considerin’ it anyway. Didn’t want ta’ get into it until later. But.” Casper’s nose was jutting into his neck, and he moved the boy, lifting his own chin to settle it on top of the blonde hair. “S’what I’m doin’, though. Stayin’.”

“For another year?” Samuel asked. 

“For…ever.” Stephen tried to shift in his seat, had to wrap both arms around the sleeping child so he could do it. Casper’s head lolled, nose back to sticking in his neck. “S’long as he needs me, anyway.”

Franklin’s eyes glittered in the firelight, watching the man and the child he held with a firm gaze. “ _Why_?”

“I need a reason?”

“I need to hear it.” Franklin shifted forward in his chair.

“Ya don’t-”

“Two years ago you said you’d never stay.” The youngest’s voice was uncharacteristically stoic. “Two years ago, you were hissin’ up the walls about the kid livin’ in _your_ inheritance. Barely gave us any calls b’fore you started stayin’ here.”

“Franklin-”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice the knife.”

Stephen’s arms wrapped a little more securely around the child. “S’just a knife.”

“It’s _not.”_

“Why can’t it be.”

“Because it isn’t,” Franklin said, eyes sharp enough to cut into wood. “You passed on an _heirloom_. That ain’t nothin’, Stephen. An’ I got my money that a fair share more is goin’ to that kid when he gets older. Am I right?”

“You can’t-”

“ _Am I right?”_

The arms tightened again around the child.

Casper, watching beside Amelia, began to feel the beginnings of cold anxiety gripping his stomach. “ _What does he mean?”_ he whispered to Amelia. 

“Watch-”

“But what does it _mean?”_

She turned from the memory for a moment. The two men were still staring each other down. “He gave you the family heirloom.”

“I know,” said Casper.

“It was a symbol,” she explained, evenly. “Back then, heirlooms meant more. There was a weight put on them. Especially for the eldest son.”

“ _So?”_

“So,” she said, “he broke every social convention there was. And he was about to do that tenfold.”

“What does that-”

“Just _watch.”_

Casper turned back. The cloying hands were tightening around his spine, his stomach, his chest. 

In the memory, Franklin took a slow sip of brandy, eyes never leaving the eldest brother. One of the logs in the fireplace gave way, and a shower of sparks crackled upwards. “I remember J.T. tellin’ me about inheritance once. The two of you never got on. Never got on with us, neither. But him an’ you? Water an’ vinegar. No. More like an open flame and gunpowder. But I remember him tellin’ me about inheritance. You know how he was about that shit. About _legacy_ . Used to tell me that if anythin’ happened to you, everythin’ would go to _him_ . The house. The land. Titles. S’part of the reason I think he took up roost in this house in the first place. It’s the rule of age. Pa’ made sure to put it in the official documents an’ everythin’. And I used to rile his feathers up by remindin’ him that _you_ were eldest. An’ if you wanted to, you could change it in a heartbeat.” Franklin took another long drink. “You were always smarter than he was by miles. Probably miles ahead of us, too.”

“Franklin-”

“I don’t think that fact slipped your mind, Stephen. Don’t think it ever could. It’s a fuckin’ steel trap up there. I’ve gotten myself caught in it a few times, an it was a fuckin’ nightmare. I just wasn’t sure when you’d finally use that power bein’ _Eldest_ gave you. Wasn’t ever really sure. Until now.” His eyes drifted down to the boy sleeping in Stephen’s lap. “Feelin’ like I might have a clue.”

Stephen’s throat bobbed. 

The clock ticked. 

Franklin put his glass down. 

“Who’s the house going to, Stephen?”

Silence. 

“The family land?”

More silence. 

“An’ what about your own _legacies_. House in Boston. Your stocks and bonds?”

“You know that if anythin’ happens to me, then you two-”

“We got our share ages ago.” Franklin cut him off with a quick tongue. “I don’t care about that. I want to know who, on the McFadden inheritance, is _next_.”

Stephen swallowed. “My lawyer ain’t comin’ for a few more months.” 

“But when he does?” Franklin twisted in his chair, leaning against the armrest. “Tell me, Stephen. Who’s gonna end up bein’ heir to the McFadden Line?” 

Stephen’s hands were shaking. His eyes drifted down to the boy in his lap before moving back up to his brothers. 

“Holy shit,” Samuel breathed. “ _Holy shit_.” 

Casper, watching the memory, felt his world tighten around him. 

Amelia looked down at him. “Casper?”

“The house…” 

“Mmm.”

“ _Everything…”_

“Yes.”

“He was going to-”

“He was,” she said. “Yes. That was his intention."

"He wouldn't."

"The lawyers will be here in a later memory," she explained evenly. "This house? The land around it?" She tipped her head back, looking at the domed ceiling. "Everything he has would go to you. To all the world on paper, _you_ are the heir of Whipstaff."

Casper's breath stalled.

The man on the chair was still holding the boy so securely. So tightly. He could feel it in his own bones, pressing all around him. He didn't shake the feeling away. The only word he could find beneath all the _familiar_ and the _real_ and the _hurt_ was, “... why?”

She let out a long breath. “Why stay? Why give everything you have? Why tether yourself to a child that isn’t yours?”

Casper closed his mouth, suddenly afraid of the answer. 

Franklin's voice cut through. “Does the kid know?”

“That I’m staying? Course.”

“Not that.”

Stephen shifted in his seat for the hundredth time. “S’not somethin’ he needs to know yet. I’ll tell’m when he’s old enough to inherit. Thirteen. Maybe later. I grew up with this name on my back, an’ it damn near crippled me.” He ran his hands through the gold curls. “He doesn’t need that. Just needs ta' grow. Live his life. Go ta' school. Get ta' be a kid.” 

“But you _are_ passin’ on a legacy-”

“I don’t give two shits about legacy, an’ you know it,” Stephen snarled. His shaking hands went to fuss with the boy’s curls. They’d been smashed down and knotted from the day’s excitement. He worked with practiced ease, untangling each one carefully, the boy sleeping on, unaware of the movement and his newfound place in his family's history. “S’not why I’m doin’ that, an’ it ain’t why I’m stayin’.” 

“Then _why_.”

“I don’t-”

“I need a reason.”

“ _Why_?” The word came out a little too loudly, and the boy on Stephen’s lap shifted, lashes fluttering. They all quieted while Stephen hushed them, dipping down to murmur something into the boy’s hair, smoothing hands down his back. 

It only took a moment for the child to settle again, hands fisted softly into the fabric of the Italian suit beneath. The fabric wrinkled. He didn’t move to fix it.

“I need a reason, Stephen,” Franklin whispered, “because no one just makes these decisions without one. No one decides to make their nephew an heir or pass on a legacy-”

“I don’t care about-”

“And _no one_ fuckin’ decides to _stay with another person forever_ unless they’ve got a damn good one.”

“I _don’t_.”

“Bullshit.”

The pair of them faced off across the tiny space, neither blinking. Beyond them, the fire crackled and spit.

Sammy, in his seat, leaned forward, as if ready to break up another fight. 

He wouldn’t need to. 

“I got one,” Stephen said at last.

“Do you?”

“ _Yes_.”

Franklin tilted his chin up. 

The eldest brother moved his eyes away, to the tree, the fire, the boy in his lap. “Eighteen years in this fuckin’ house, an’ it never felt like home. Not once. When I left, I never thought I’d hafta set foot here again. Those first six months, after the funeral, I couldn’t turn a corner without feelin’ like that bastard was still watchin’ me. Livin’ in the shadows, ya know?” He reached for his tumbler, swirled the contents slowly. “Then last year, when you were up for his birthday and we were sittin’ on the train, all I could think about was how good it would be to get home. He did that. Didn’t hafta do nothin’ ‘cept just _be_ , an’ he made this house’a horrors ‘home’. So it should be his, is all.” He took a sip of brandy, and dared a glance at his brothers. 

Sammy’s eyes were still saucers. “Holy _shit_.”

Stephen’s brow knit together and his eyes sought Franklin’s again. “That _good_ enough for ya?”

But the youngest didn’t look smug or satisfied. Instead, the big man looked on the verge of tears. “Oh my god.”

“ _What?”_

“You love the kid.”

“No I-”

“You. Love. The. Kid.” Franklin punctuated each word with a jab of his cigar. 

“I-” Stephen’s ears burned bright red as he looked between his brothers. “I- _Yeah, okay!”_ he hissed, the red spreading across his cheeks. “I love the fuckin’ kid! Jesus!”

Franklin beamed. “Was that really so hard?”

“ _Maybe_ . You don’t know.” The eldest shifted stiffly in his seat, polished off the rest of his drink. “Just ‘cause _you_ say it to the _bellhop_ …”

Franklin smiled. “We’ll get you there.”

“Loose teeth don’t look good on stage, Franklin.” 

The brothers quieted after that. The clocked ticked away. Stephen shifted the boy a few more times, but he never woke. Not when Samuel tripped over the carpet getting another cigar or when Franklin bellowed a laugh at an old memory they recited. Stephen hushed them, breath rustling the boy’s curls, whispering threats their way. 

Eventually, the cigars burned out and the brandy ran dry. 

Franklin stood first. “Time to turn in.” He gestured towards Casper. “You want me to take him to bed? He’ll be all over you t’morrow. Give you a moment to breathe.”

“Who needs breathing when the mistletoe’s up,” Samuel said, leering at the eldest. “Nell still around?”

“I’ve been gettin’ better at multitaskin’, Sammy,” Stephen growled. “Could probably hold the kid and land ya’ a black eye at the same time. You wanna try it?”

“Just sayin’,” Samuel sang, finishing the final dregs of his glass. 

Franklin stepped between them both, reaching out his arms. “So. Kid?” 

“Nah. I got this. Need to peel him out of this suit anyway.” He got up, hefting Casper higher in his arms. The boy’s head lolled before going back to rest on his shoulder. “He’ll be gettin’ me up at the crack’a dawn.”

Samuel stretched, back cracking. “If he's anything like we were at that age, he probably won't even last _that_ long. You got anything extra from the man in red we gotta bring down?"

“Hid a few things in the top of my closet. Kid is a fuckin’ zoo animal. Can climb anything. I’ll bring’m down tonight. Had Nell sign all of them, so he wouldn’t recognize the signature.”

"You read that in a parenting book or somethin'?" Franklin asked, grinning.

“Careful with the _P_ word, Frankie,” Sammy sneered, brushing by. “You know how feral this one gets.” 

He skirted away from the spindly leg before it could land a kick. 

The Ghost of Casper watched them leave. He began to follow, hesitating in the doorway. Amelia touched his shoulder. “You can go, if you’d like,” she said.

He nodded, and followed his Uncles up the stairs. Two of them branched off quietly in one direction at the top of the foyer steps while the other, carrying the child, continued to the right. 

Casper watched his own sleeping face, draped over the shoulder. 

Watched them arrive at the room that he and Kat shared in the world he’d left behind. 

He drifted quietly in the doorway. Despite knowing that he’d be unseen by the memory, some part of him felt too-exposed in the open, and didn’t go any farther in than the doorway. 

His Uncle - all wire limbs and sharp angles - deposited the child on top of the covers. There was a momentary struggle, as he managed to unbutton the child’s jacket and untie his shoes, but there was some grace to it, too. A practiced dance of a tired child being swept into his pajamas unknowing. Practiced enough to know this was not the first time.

All of it, happening just steps from the fireplace where pictures had burned. 

Just days ago, where he’d sunken into a darkness he never thought he’d leave. 

Just there beside the memory. 

Casper felt something well in him, and he turned to go. 

“U’cl ‘phn…?”

Casper turned around again. The boy on the bed was blinking. 

“Go to sleep, Cas.”

“‘Missed Santa?”

“Oh yeah. He came. Slipped him a twenty ta’ leave the best presents here.”

“‘S naughty…”

“Yeah, well, I’m a permanent member on that list, kid. No shame in using the power.” 

There was the sound of a sleepy laugh. “S’okay if he didn’t come,” he yawned, rolling over and snuggling into his pillow. “Got what I wanted.”

The man frowned and shook his head, reaching out to pull up the covers and smooth blonde curls. “Night, Cas.”

* * *

From a distance, a boy watched, a woman beside him. 

_This is real,_ a voice soothed. 

“My dad wasn’t here,” he said again.

Amelia stepped up beside him. “J.T. wasn’t here,” she replied. “Not at this moment, no.”

“And he- he said he-”

“He did.” She nodded. “It was a feeling he was getting used to. Growing very much like the sapling you and your Uncle Samuel planted in the yard. And it would grow. And grow until he had a life of its own.” She squeezed his shoulder. “He’s just learning how to love again, sweetheart. And you found your way in at the beginning. But just wait- just _wait_ until he learns how to use that heart of his. Until the feeling is more than just a word. We're going to see more memories. And we'll watch him change and grow, more and more." Her own eyes were glistening. "He was a stubborn man. But he didn't expect to pass that on to you. And you pressed your way into his life until you didn't have to any more. Until he pulled you in just as hard." 

Casper's hands shook. She reached down to take one in hers.

"This won't be the first time he'll use the words. But the meaning will change. Grow. And this won't be the first promise he'll make, either. And he keeps all the ones that he can.”

Casper didn’t realize he was crying until she reached down to swipe at his face. “Do you want a minute?”

“No,” he said, voice tight. “I’m okay.”

She gave him a minute anyway, watching the man move away from the bed, and stand at the door. Watching him as he watched the sleeping child. Waiting until the lights in the hall had gone out, and the man was gone again. 

* * *

Stretch could feel Stephen in his brain, frozen in place, holding metaphorical breath. 

“Doc…” Stretch’s hands were tight on the desk. They shook. “Be careful. This ain’t a little idea you’re playin’ with-”

“I know.”

“We don’t got time for crazy theories.”

Harvey shook his head, approaching the desk. “But it _isn’t_.”

“Doc-”

“Think about it, Stretch. Really think about it. This house - every brick, ever tile, every curtain - is full of history. _Your_ history. And for whatever reason, it affected you the most. No- wait…” He shook his head, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Not for whatever reason. It’s not _whatever_. Because the reason was here. And it kept bruising, until you felt like you needed to build up walls.”

Stretch’s voice was rough when he croaked out a soft, “so?”

“So? Stretch. It isn’t unusual to build walls around us to protect our feelings. What’s unusual is actually _building them_. You created a world, just to keep out the hurt.”

He wanted to answer the doctor. Wanted to tell him that he was wrong. That there had to be another answer. 

And then, from behind his eyes; “ _That’s not all it was.”_

“What?”

Harvey looked up at him. “Stephen?”

“He’s sayin’... he’s sayin’ that ain’t all it was.”

“ _He’s not wrong._ ” The voice was tentative. There was a darkness twinging around the words. A fear. A relief. A hurt that was almost always present. “ _You think he’s wrong. He ain’t. This place? The place I was stuck in. The place you sent me? S’where Casper is now.”_

If Stretch had a heart, it would have been stuttering. He could almost feel it. A soft beating in the walls, pumping tragedies through the pipes. “ _Lemme talk to him_.”

“No.”

“Stretch?”

“ _I won’t take over like before. I just- he needs to hear this. You need to hear this.”_

“I ain’t lettin’ you-”

 _“You’ll be in control,”_ the voice said again, urgency beneath each syllable. _“But this won’t work if we’re playin’ telephone. S’better he hears it from someone who can see both sides.”_

Stretch swallowed. “He- uh. He wants ta’ talk.”

The doctor's eyes sparked. 

“Says he’ll let me be in the driver's seat, but he’s got stuff he needs ta’ share.”

“And… you’ll let him?”

“I don’t think we’ve got much of a choice now.”

Harvey nodded. He looked like he wanted to say something. Something about progress. Or growth. Or sharing spaces. But he held back. 

Stretch was grateful for it. He didn’t think he could have taken anything more. 

“Alright,” he said, to the room and the person sitting just behind his eyes. “You gonna do this or what?”

Before him, Harvey sat down again, smoothing down the pages of his notebook. 

There was a feeling, like falling beneath the surface of a wave. It had torn him beneath a current the last time, sweeping him out into an endless and deep nothing that he’d clawed his way back from. This time, when he allowed the shift without any resistance, it was more like a gentle tug. He followed it down, watching the world before him pulse back. Like watching a show from the balcony, he sat back in the everlasting nothing, staring at Harvey and the image of himself at the desk from a pinpoint in the distance. 

He breathed, shaking off the strange vibrations through his body. 

He could hear the sounds of the office like a distant hum.

The clock ticking. 

The papers on the floor rustling. 

The rain hitting the window.

Somewhere, distantly, he swore he could hear other noises, too. Music, maybe. Laughter. The voices of his brothers and… 

Someone younger. 

When he blinked, looking off into the depths of the Infinity towards the noise, there were little lights far off.

Like windows, he thought. 

The voices of himself and Harvey drew him back. They echoed around him. 

He allowed it, listening closely. 

The lights far off twinkled. 

* * *

Stephen was back. 

Harvey could tell Stephen was back by the way he sat; straighter than Stretch did. 

The desk was his, and his place there was as natural as a spider in its web. 

“He’s lettin’ me come out for a little while,” Stephen said, elbows pressed on the desktop. 

“Where does he go? To… that place?”

“Nah. Somewhere outside of it. Can probably see the fingerprints of it where he is, though.” He sighed out, shoulders drifting down. “Helps that he ain’t resistin’ this time.”

Harvey wanted to ask more, but the clock on the wall was enough of a reminder that time was a precious resource they didn’t have much of. 

“So the place Between. Is it-”

“Yeah.” Stephen nodded. “S’his.”

Harvey felt a jolt run through him. He scribbled down a few words for later. 

_Building walls._

_Literally._

_Trapped?_

“But it ain’t exactly what ya’ think it is.” He drifted out of the chair, moving around the room in a slow circle. His translucent hand pressed against the walls, looking them up and down. “We were always mental builders. S’what we were good at. _Are_ good at. S’why we went into finance in the first place. It’s easy ta’ see the big picture when yer mind lays it out for ya’.” He swallowed, moving his hand across the small indents in the walls. “It’s what we was good at with family, too. Brickin’ ourselves up. Keepin’ ourselves safe.”

“From everyone?”

“Mmm. It’s easier ta’ not let anyone in. Less chance’a hurt that way. For a while, I didn’t talk to any of my brothers. Imagine that.”

“I can’t.” Harvey shook his head. “Since I’ve been here, it’s always been the ghostly trio.”

“Yeah, well, wasn’t always like that in life. Not that they didn’t make the effort. But I’d just gotten so good at buildin’. Wasn’t anything they could do ta’ get through.”

Harvey looked down at his notes, fingertips tracing about the page. “That wasn’t how it was for Casper though, was it.”

“Kid was a builder, too. Just a different type. He didn’t lay out the bricks. He made doors. Keys. Bridges.”

“He brought the walls down.”

“For a while.” The sentence hung in the air a moment, heavy as an omen. “Thing is… somethin’ happened. Brought them right up but stronger. Higher. Enough, like you said, to make _that place_ real. A place to hold me. The side of him an’ the memories he wanted ta’ forget. But that ain’t all it does.”

Harvey’s pen stalled. 

Stephen turned to watch him. Dark eyes shone. His voice was barely a breath when he said, “It protects.” 

“... protects-”

“People. Or… memories of people.” He twisted shaking fingers together. “It ain’t right how we treated the kid. I ain’t sayin’ it was. I had to fuckin’ watch it behind glass for years, an’ it tore me up inside. Kid was our everythin’, and ta’ see him brought so far down like that- but it doesn’t change the fact that the place I was stuck? Memory of Casper is there, too. Goin’ through the motions. Replayin’ history over an’ over like it could change if we just did one thing better. One thing _right_.”

The lights above pulsed again, but this time they did so softly. Grief mingled with the shadows. 

“So you’re saying…” Harvey looked down at his notes, “you’re saying that the memory of Casper was in that place with the memory of you for… protection?”

“Yeah. Not like it did much. But subconsciously, s’what he did. Took the memory of the kid an’ locked it up safe, away from somethin’. Just like his other half.”

Harvey nodded. “Just like his other half.”

He got a nod in return.

“It adds up. You felt pain, and sorrow, and loss, but all of those good moments? They had to be _somewhere_. Pain can’t be felt without joy, and that joy went somewhere, buried with everything else.”

“An’ there is joy there. So much’a it. God, Doc, if you could only _see_ just how happy he- _we_ were…” Stephen’s eyes glistened again, and he swiped at them quickly, jaw tightening. “Like I said- it was Hell seein’ how he treated that kid. Worse than Hell. But the truth still stands, Dr. Harvey. Casper was in _this house_ for a reason.”

“What reason is that?”

“A promise.”

He seemed surprised by his own admission, like he hadn’t realized it himself. A small part of the puzzle fished from a hidden place. 

Harvey sat forward, forgetting to scribble the word down. “What promise.”

“I-” Stephen swallowed. “I don’t-” He flinched then, fingers touching gently at his temple. “I made a lot of 'em. And I fuckin' kept the ones I could. But there was one at the end. One at the... at the _end_." He winced again. "Shit. He’s drifting. Last thing he needs is ta’ get stuck there.”

“Get stuck-”

“In that place.”

“I thought you said-”

“I said it was outside. Didn’t say there weren’t paths. Last thing we need is him showin’ up at the door.” He flinched again, looking up with a pained spark. “I’ll talk through’m. But I don’t think-”

There was a shfit in his face. In the language of his posture. 

And just like that, Stretch was back, blinking like he’d just come up from the bottom of a well. 

Harvey gave him a minute to adjust before asking, “did you hear?”

“Yeah.” His voice was rough. “God. I remember- reason the kid was stuck here. I made a fuckin’ promise. But-”

“But?”

“But I can’t remember-” He glared at a corner, fists tight on the desktop. “We keep gettin’ so close. So _close_. An’ every time-”

“We’ll get there,” the doctor said gently. 

“Will we?”

“Yes. Like you said, you’ve been bricking yourself up for a long time. It’s not unusual for that to become a habit. And it doesn’t mean we’re out of options.” Harvey sat back. His feet tapped against more papers on the floor. “You said that you were a builder. That you got really good at _building_.”

“So what?”

“Well, you said Casper was a builder, too.”

“That doesn’t mean nothin’.”

“It does, if you consider that he’s a child _you raised_.”

Stretch’s throat bobbed. 

“I don’t know much beyond what your other half has said and what my daughter has uncovered. But I’m beginning to see at least a little more of this picture. You raised him. That kid, lost in a place you created? For some amount of time, at least, you raised him.”

“So?” The ghost's throat was tight. His fists were tighter. 

“So. Kids learn. It’s how they grow. He didn’t become a builder because it was a part of his blood. He became that way because someone taught him. He learned how to build those bridges and doors and keys because he _learned_.”

“What are ya’ sayin’...” 

“I’m saying, maybe it’s time you learned how to build again. You want to find answers? Do what the kid did and start building doors instead.”

Stretch nodded slowly, looking around the little office. “Alright,” he said, finally. “Alright, doc. Let’s build a fuckin’ door.” 

* * *

After a while, once he was ready, the pair of ghosts followed Stephen to his room. He hadn’t been lying about hidden presents, and he took three boxes wrapped in brown paper and twine down from the spot where they’d been stored behind a few folded towels. He stacked them in his arms and brought them down, a ghost close behind. 

Amelia was still standing in the foyer when he came back. “See anything good?” she asked. 

Casper didn’t answer. 

The sounds of clinking glasses made its way through the library doors. Stephen cursed under his breath, opening the doors. “Thought I told you to stop cleaning.”

“And leave this for the morning?” Ms. Danvers was there, emptying ashtrays and stacking glasses onto a platter. “I’d rather spend my Christmas doing anything else, thank you very much.” 

He snorted, and strode to the tree, arranging the presents there, making sure the tags faced outward. His housekeeper’s careful handwriting - _From Santa_ \- was easy to spot. “Didn’t do too bad this year, did we?”

“Certainly _bigger_ than last year,” she agreed. “Though maybe don’t keep trying to top yourself. I’m not sure my nerves could take it.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” He took a step away from the tree, hands in his back pockets. “This mountain of presents and the kid’s got a nerve to tell me he doesn’t care if Santa comes or not,” he muttered, half to himself. 

The housekeeper was making her way around the room, extinguishing the lamps. “Well that’s not surprising.”

“Eh?”

“He already got what he asked for.”

“What’re you on about? The damn train’s right there.” He waved a hand at the tree. “S’what you said he wanted- what he wrote-”

“That wasn’t _all_ he wrote.” She drew closer, pulling a slip of paper from the pocket of her apron. She offered it to him, and in the light of the dying fire, he squinted at it.

The ghost floated closer, hovering just near enough over the man’s shoulder to recognize the same childlike scrawl from the gift tags.

> DEER SANTA
> 
> IV BEN REELY GUD AN I DONT NOW HOW TO JUGLE SO PLEES DONT SEND ME TO THE CIRKUS.
> 
> I HAV A LOT SO I DONT NEED TO MUCH BUT IN CAS U WANTED TO...
> 
> I WANT UNCLE STEPHEN TO STAY
> 
> HE IS VERY IMPORTINT TO ME N I WUD MIS HIM LOTS N LOTS
> 
> CAN YU ASC HIM IF HE CUD STAY? HE SED HE KNOWS U AN THAT HE PAYZ U SOMTIMS BECUS HES ON THE NOTTY LIST EVEN THO HES REELY REELY GUD AN TAYKS GUD CARE OF ME.
> 
> ALSO AN ELEKTRIK TRAIN LIK IN THE CATALOG
> 
> MERRY CHRISMAS!
> 
> LUV LOTS, CASPR

Casper drew in a breath at nearly the same time his uncle did.

Long fingers gripped the paper tightly and when he spoke again his voice was thick. “You told me the damn train was all he-”

“I didn’t want you to feel pressured,” she said gently, taking a step closer. “The boy doesn’t need you staying out of guilt or some misguided sense of obligation. He needs _exactly_ who he found on the stairs tonight.”

Stephen blinked, eyebrows shooting skyward. “You-”

“Good acoustics in this house.” She shrugged, offering him a guilty smile. “You handled that beautifully.”

He scoffed, moved to turn away, but she caught him by the hand. He barely had time to raise an eyebrow before her other hand snaked its way around the back of his neck, pulling him down so their mouths could meet. His free hand found her waist, moved to draw her closer, when she pulled away, cheeks pink. “...Nell?”

“Midnight.” She cleared her throat, smoothed out her apron. “Mistletoe. Remember?”

“But we weren’t under-”

She picked up the tray of used glasses and ashtrays. “Merry Christmas, Stephen.” Face still flushed, she quickly left the room.

He raised a hand after her but couldn’t find any words, so he ran it through his dark hair instead, exhaling heavily. “Christ, what a night…” He stooped down, plucked the bottle of brandy off the floor, and carried it with him out of the room.

Floating, blinking, staring wide-eyed after the memory, Casper felt Amelia appear at his side again.

The fire crackled. The moment was finally still, void of anyone. Admissions of the night hung in the air. Like mistletoe, or stars. 

Like promises. 

“He took a lot of chances, today. Your Uncle.” Her voice drew his gaze up. His eyes were still raw from crying. Chest still tight from the realities closing in on him.

_This is real._

_This is real._

_This is real._

It didn’t hurt as much, though. It was a surprising realization. Touching his chest, realizing that the weight didn’t hurt. The room echoed still with laughter, with admissions, with…

...with the warmth of a house made _home_.

The ghost swallowed. “Is there, um, is there more? More memories, I mean?”

“Plenty more.” She waved a hand and the light shifted, turning the pink of pre-dawn. 

She pointed at the ceiling as running footsteps _thump-thump-thumped_ above their heads, followed by a child’s shout, “GET UP, UNCLE STEPHEN! IT’S CHRISTMAS!!”

“Come on,” said Amelia. “This is one of my favorite parts.”


	14. The Morning of the Signing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A promise made is sealed in ink. A date is added to the pool table. Letters are found and Something Important is lost.

Above them, they could hear springs creaking as a child jumped on a bed. There was a man’s voice drifting down, rough with sleep, complaining loudly. 

“You always were an early riser.” Amelia gestured towards the grandfather clock in the foyer. “But like most children, this particular morning always came with an extra-early wake-up call.”

He followed her finger.

Gaped at the time.

 **_5_** :03.

He didn’t have time to comment on it before a little boy was at the top of the stairs, hopping up and down. “C’MON! IT’S _CHRISTMAS_!”

“Jesus, Cas…” His Uncle was stumbling from a hallway in a half tied robe that was thrown across his bony frame. His union suit peeked from beneath. He was wearing slippers. “Couldn’t wait another _hour_.”

“YOU’RE TOO SLOW!” Casper jumped again, and he grabbed the man’s hand, tugging. “C’ _mon_.”

“Yeah, Stephen!” Franklin was there on the other end, looking considerably less ruffled than his eldest brother. He reached down and scooped up the kid. Casper draped over his shoulder, shrieking, as the man bounded down the stairs. 

They passed the ghosts, who watched, fascinated. 

Samuel eventually stumbled out, watching Franklin carry Casper towards the library. “Since when did he get all the energy?”

“Because he’s the youngest, an’ that’s how it works,” Stephen growled. “They’re young and sprightly and can fuck right off.”

Samuel laughed. “I’ll make coffee.” 

“S’Christmas.” Stretch began to descend the left staircase, trying to rub sleep out of his eyes unsuccessfully. “Spike it or I strangle you.”

“Aye aye, fearless leader.” 

The scene shifted. Amelia gestured to Casper to follow her. In the library, the boy in the footed pajamas was lording over shredded paper, presents beside him. He was busy setting up a train with Samuel, who seemed to have a good handle at it all, and was showing Casper the best way to connect the little tracks.

There were coffee mugs scattered and plates of half eaten pancakes on the desk where Dr. Harvey would sit in little more than a hundred years. 

They watched for a little while longer. 

The boy eventually rooted around beneath the tree and found the packages marked with his Uncle’s names. “Uncle Stephen helped me spell!” 

Franklin squinted at Stephen’s; a flat envelope with a message written in crayon across. “Why’s it say _don’t sell me to the circus_.”

Stephen was about to answer, when the little boy chimed in, handing Franklin his own. “S’cause whenever I do somethin' bad, Uncle Stephen tells me-" and he straighted up, putting on an almost scarily accurate nasaly Boston accent, giving his finger a waggle, "you'd best watch it, bulbhead or I'll send ya' right ta' the circus, an’ you’ll be doin’ tricks for peanuts!" 

Stephen’s fumbled explanation was lost after his brothers doubled over, roaring with laughter, holding onto their chairs for dear life.

“That’s the best impression’a you I ever heard!” Samuel wheezed, clutching his sides. 

Stephen rolled his eyes, shooting Casper a look. The boy blinked innocently. 

Eventually even that died away, and the Uncles opened their own gifts. 

“Your Uncle Franklin was always the most sentimental,” Amelia said, explaining away the scene in front of them of the Uncle squeezing the kid in a bone-popping hug. 

“Can’t believe you saved that fer a whole year! That’s going _right_ on my mantle at home.” Beside him, with crinkled paper cast side, was a picture frame made of what looked like sticks from the yard, and within the frame was a treasure map drawn in crayon.

“And my Uncle Sti- _Samuel_ ,” he corrected quickly. The name felt odd. Unknown. He watched curiously as the man grinned and ruffled the boy’s hair. He was as disheveled as always; barely a difference between his robe and the coat hanging in the hall. It was a paperweight made from a rock, painted so carefully to look something like a book. “He’s not as…” and he gestured mutely towards Franklin, still boasting about the map in the frame. 

She laughed. “Middle child syndrome, I think. Never on either extremes. Just know that he adored it. He’d use it on his desk at the university for years. Would never throw it out. Showed _everyone_.”

Casper nodded. Finally drawn over to the eldest in the wingback. “And him?”

“Your Uncle Stephen?” She turned towards the chair, tilting her head. “What do you think?” 

There was a sheet of paper in his hand. 

The hands that held it were shaking. 

“What’s that?” Casper looked up at Amelia. 

Her smile was sad. “The contract.”

“The…” He frowned. “The one he had me sign?” 

She laughed. “Similar. This one was all your own,” she said. “You were five. Would be six in a few months. And you were afraid.”

“Why?”

“Because you were scared to lose something precious to you, and a life full of certain things that most people much older than that take for granted. Love. Care. _Family_. So you did the only thing you knew how to do.” She reached down and took his hand, bringing him closer to the scene. “You wrote a contract,” she continued. “It’s what your Uncle always did. It’s how he solved issues. It’s how he fixed broken things. _And_ it was a way to keep himself and people around him safe. You grew up knowing contracts. It was something he'd impressed on you. That a contract was the way to get things done. So you tried to speak his language.” 

Soon, they were standing just behind Stephen. Casper could smell smoke and leather and spices and an aftershave that he recognized from the bathrooms that he’d never been able to scrub away. A phantom scent that clung to the tiles. Woodsmoke and allspice. 

Casper swallowed. Looked over his shoulder at the paper in his hand. 

It had been written on a typewriter, and all the words were spelled correctly. 

AGREEMENT OF COHABITATION AND FAMILIAL BONDS

On December 25th, 1888, we, the family members named below, sign into an agreement to jointly occupy the property known as Whipstaff Manor (hereby referred to as ‘Home’).

The family members entering into this agreement are CASPER McFADDEN (hereby referred to as Party A) and STEPHEN McFADDEN (hereby referred to as Party B).

**SCHEDULE:**

Party A will agree to refrain from early wakeup calls on SUNDAY 

Party B will agree to a 6:03 wake-up call MON-SAT, but is allowed to be grumpy about it.

Party A will agree to an 8:30 PM bedtime with very little fuss, though the stipulated time is subject to renegotiation on each subsequent birthday.

**PERSONAL PROPERTY**

Party A understands that all suits are ITALIAN and will henceforth be more careful about spilling things on them.

Party B will agree to count down from ten (10) if such spills DO occur before hollering.

Party B will agree to acquire some clothes that aren’t quite so precious and more suitable to outdoor play.

Party A will agree not to leave tiny, pointy toys on the floor where Party B might step on them.

**CLEANING**

Party A will agree to clean up all areas after he has occupied them, and will do his best to refrain from bringing anything too messy into Party B’s office. 

Party B will agree to not bring official documents to the kitchen, as Party B needs to learn from his mistakes. Party A can only do so much when there is syrup at the table and Party B expects too much. 

**FAMILIAL BONDS**

Party A will agree to try one new vegetable a week, save for cucumbers, which he has pointed out taste like “if water went bad”. 

Party A will smile and nod when Party B gets finished with a work call and wants to talk about it, even though Party A has no (0) idea what the difference between a Bull and Bear Market is.

Party B will agree to try his very best to understand the rules of baseball so that Party A does not have to explain them anymore. 

Party B agrees to continue to walk Party A to and from school, until such time as Party A decides he’s big enough to walk alone. Party B must also agree not to shout BULBHEAD after school, as the nickname is catching on with classmates and Party A will soon be forced to leave the country if Party B refuses to stop embarrassing him. 

Party B will agree to come up with at least five (FIVE) new voices during bedtime reading, as Party A has pointed out that there is very little logic behind pirates and princesses that sound like they spend equal amounts of their off-hours in Bostonian Pubs. 

_And, at the very bottom, seen by Casper or Amelia and the Uncle who held it_ ; 

  
**FAMILIAL AFFECTION**

Party A will agree to love Party B so much even when Party B makes it clear that the ZOO/CIRCUS/MUSEUM/ETC. is always looking for new exhibits, and would like Party B to know that he is the best Uncle ever.

Party B will agree to love Party A so much even when Party A makes Party B want to sell him to the aforementioned ZOO/CIRCUS/MUSEUM/ETC. Because that’s what families do.

We, the undersigned, agree to the above terms.

___ _Casper McFadden_ _________ ______December 25, 1888________

_____________________________ ________________________________

“I wrote that?” he whispered. He looked up. The others were distracted by their own gifts and the train that the boy was loudly showing off. They didn’t notice the shaking hands that held the sheet of paper as carefully as he could. “I _made_ that.”

“You did,” she said. “Your first Christmas being raised by him. You knew what you wanted to say. And you knew how to say it.” She reached down to wipe something from his face. “You were always genuine, and you never hid it. And it changed him for as long as he had you.”

The memory of his Uncle looked up at the scene; at his brothers and his nephew. When he saw they were still distracted, he swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. 

There was an urge to comfort the man that Casper didn’t understand. He reached out, as if to touch the robed shoulder.

His hand passed through, and he pulled away. 

It didn’t matter, though. The memory of him was just as quick to arrive by the chair, padding over. He was grinning ear to ear. “Do ya’ like it! Ms. Danvers helped me type!” 

“Did she?” Stephen’s voice was rough, and he cleared his throat. 

“It’s like the first one!”

“You did a good job. It looks real official, kid.”

“ _Really_?”

“Mmhm. Looks like you’ve been listening to my talks after all.”

“Yeah, but they’re _boring_.”

“You _agreed_ ,” Stephen pointed out, tweaking the boy’s nose and giving the contract a gentle shake. “Signed and everything.”

“ _You_ gotta sign, too.” 

Stephen nodded seriously. “Oh, right away.” He got up, and the ghost of Casper moved back to avoid being passed through as he made his way to the desk, the memory of Casper trailing behind. 

There was a pen in the top drawer of the library desk, and he snatched it up. 

“There,” he said, signature looping. “Official.” He dropped the pen and held out his hand. “Nice doin’ business with ya’, Mr. McFadden.”

Casper dropped his voice a few octaves. “Likewise, Mr. McFadden.” 

Stephen snorted, pulling the child against his side with one arm. “S’great, Cas.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“Really.”

Casper beckoned him down with a wave of his hand. The man folded over like a branch in the wind. “ _I’m really, really happy you’re staying_ , _Uncle Stephen,_ ” Casper half-whispered once he was close enough. “I’d’ve been so sad if you left.”

“Would you?” The man raised a good-natured eyebrow. “Sure you wouldn’t rather I skip town an’ save ya’ a chore or two?”

“Mmm-mm. Because I would’ve been lonely. An’ no one would be here to read to me or make me bad hot chocolate.”

“ _Watch it_.”

“An’ I love you lots and lots. So I’m happy you’re staying.” 

Stephen’s throat bobbed. 

From beyond them, watching along, Casper’s own eyes burned. 

He watched Stephen hesitate before shifting forward. “Yeah, kid. You’re with me.”

“I’m with you!” Casper agreed.

The ghost swallowed. “He didn’t say it back…”

From beside him, Amelia reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “He did.” 

Casper didn’t have time to ask about it as the boy in the memory grinned, looking both ways before adding, “S’what I asked for anyway. Santa could’ve skipped the train.”

“Happy to be stayin’ too, kid,” Stephen half-whispered back. He paused before adding, “ _You better play with the goddamn train._ ”

* * *

Amelia waved a hand and the day began moving in fast-forward.

The morning mess of torn paper, ribbons and pancakes was cleaned up.

All four McFaddens bundled up and went outside after Casper begged enough and promised to wear _lots_ of layers. They built snow forts and had what looked like an intense snowball fight that ended with Franklin and Stephen scuffling in the snow.

They got back inside and Stephen (still paranoid after the boy’s fever just a few weeks ago), got Casper in front of the fire with a cup of tea and instructions to _stay there until you’re warm, or it’s off to the circus._

When the sky finally began to pulse away into darkness, the little group scavenged party leftovers for dinner (the house was markedly empty of staff) and Amelia slowed things down again as they ate platefuls of mostly sweets in front of the fireplace.

Seated with his legs criss-cross on a chair that dwarfed him and his plate in his lap, Casper glanced to his left. “Uncle Stephen, you didn’t put any sweet potato on your plate and you put too much on mine,” he declared. “You gotta have some too.”

From the chair to Casper’s right, Samuel snickered. “Busted.”

“Thought you were real slick there, didn’t ya, Stretch?” Franklin grinned.

The eldest frowned, ears red. “I ain’t the one that needs it. I ain’t the one still growin’.”

“Sure you are!” Innocent as could be, the boy leaned over the armrest (plate tipping but not spilling), to point at the potbelly that was visible beneath the button down shirt his uncle had worn that day (the closest he ever got to ‘dressing down’). “Right there.”

The other two brothers howled with laughter.

“Nothin’ like a kid ta keep ya humble, hmm?” Franklin raised his glass to Sammy.

“From the mouths of babes an’ all that,” Sammy lifted his glass as well.

“Any chance Santa left a muzzle under that tree,” Stephen asked, glaring at the three across from him. 

“Nah,” Sammy snorted. “Just some extra whiskey if ya’ need it.”

“Figuring I might.” And Stephen punctuated the sentence with a few pinches to Casper’s side, the boy giggling breathlessly. Franklin had to sweep in to catch his plate before it fell onto the carpet. 

Amelia chose to take a seat on the floor, directly in front of the fire. She didn’t cast a shadow. Patting the space next to her, she motioned the ghost of Casper to join her. “It’s all right. They can’t see us, remember? We don’t always have to hang so far back.”

Slowly, warily, the little ghost squeezed around the memories of his uncles to join her on the floor, watching.

At some point, Casper padded over to Stephen, rubbing his eyes. He reached up towards the man and didn’t need to say anything before Stephen rolled his eyes and reached down. “C’mere you,” he said, lifting Casper up onto his lap. The boy settled in happily. 

Franklin leaned over in his chair towards the pair. “Been a pretty good Christmas, Cas?” he asked softly.

“The _best_ ,” the boy nodded. “Got everything I wanted.” He played with one of the buttons on Stephen’s shirt. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.” Another nod, and then the boy turned a smile out towards his other uncles. “Guess what?”

Samuel joined Franklin in leaning in closer. “What, kid?”

Casper, looking like he had the most amazing secret to share, lifted himself up a little so he could see the both of them. “Uncle Stephen’s _not_ gonna go back to Boston!”

Of the two, predictably, Franklin more successfully feigned surprise. “Yer kiddin’!”

“Uh-uh!” Casper shook his head, beaming. “He’s gonna stay here with me! We signed a new contract!”

Sammy smirked. “Well that makes it _very_ official, don’t it?”

“It’s _gotta_ be,” Franklin told him, quite seriously. “Ol’ Stretch don’t do nothin’ if it ain’t down in ink.”

“You wanna see it!!” Casper was suddenly _full_ of energy again, clambering down from his uncle’s lap (landing the poor man a too-hard thump to his growing midsection that had him exhaling sharply, ignoring his brothers’ soft laughter) and darting to the desk.

Stephen raised a hand to stop him, but only managed a half-hearted wave and a sigh. 

The boy returned seconds later, standing between Franklin and Sammy, brandishing the contract. “Look! Ms. Danvers helped me type it!” The pair drew in closer to look over his narrow shoulders at it.

“I like the part about playclothes,” Franklin said.

“Sleepin’ in on Sundays! Lucky, lucky!” Samuel declared.

Between them, Casper beamed.

From his chair, Stephen hid his smile behind his glass. 

Franklin swung an arm around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “S’great, short stuff. Really great.”

“Ya know,” Samuel said, setting his glass down. “Big day like this? We gotta mark it. Tomorrow we’ll need to carve under the table, Cas.” 

The Ghost of Casper nearly jumped. So fixated on the little movements of the child, he wasn’t expecting someone to say his name. His Uncle Samuel was leaning over the arm of his chair, looking at the boy very seriously. 

The boy looked back. “What?”

“Your Uncle Stretch ever show you the pool table?”

“ _Stephen_ ,” grouched Stephen.

The boy shook his head.

“Oh, it’s a tradition,” said Franklin. “All the important dates go under that table. Started way back in 1860.” He looked over at Samuel, eyes sparkling. “You remember what started it, don’t you?"

He snorted. “When Stephen got kicked outta boarding school.”

Casper looked back and forth between them, wide eyed. “For fighting!” 

Franklin let out a booming laugh. “Would you believe it - no. He’s not really known for his _muscle_ , kid.”

Samuel cackled. “Your Uncle Stephen set up a gambling den in the common room. None'a those kids knew shit about money-"

"Dumb silver spoon types," Stephen muttered. "Couldn't do shit for themselves without a maid trailin' behind or daddy's checkbook open next to 'em."

"So Stevey here fixed it all. Based it around the school cricket matches. Told people what players to bet on, how much to put down, what percentage to match. Nearly walked away with tha’ whole boodle ‘for the school caught on!” he laughed again. "I was real young, then, but I think I vaguely ‘member ya’ comin’ back home with yer tail between yer legs."

“I was young, then, too. But we never heard the end of it from Nelly,” Franklin crowed. “School didn’t know what to do with him. Especially after they figured it’d been goin’ on for months. 

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure there were some punches thrown in there, too.” 

“You wouldn’t punch anyone,” Casper said from his lap. “You’re too _skinny_. And pointy.”

"Kids got you pegged!" bellowed Franklin. 

“Hey! I’m gettin’ stronger!”

Franklin snorted leaned over his armrest. "Pretty sure I was stronger than you when I was Cas’s age.”

Stephen glared. “You wanna find out?”

“ _Please_.” Franklin grinned. “Last time I had you pinned.” 

“I’m not ready to face Hurricane Nell again,” Samuel muttered into his glass. 

Casper grinned up at his youngest Uncle. "You’re _so_ strong! Uncle Stephen _still_ needs you to help him pick up bags an' stuff!" 

Samuel laughed hard enough to spill his drink, Franklin slapping his knees. “Gotta tell ya, Cas, you’re better than every critic out there, you know that?” 

The boy didn’t seem to know, but he rocked happily on his heels, ignoring his Uncle Stephen’s glares at the three of them. 

Franklin wiped his eyes eventually, settling from his laughter, and reached down. “Come here, kid. Been ages, and Stephen’s been _hoggin’_ ya.”

“Jealousy ain’t a good look on ya’,” Stephen said around his whiskey. “An’ careful with the contract! Don’t need it rippin’. _Strong man_ over there has the grace of an ass.”

“I’m a dancer, thank you very much,” Franklin said, but he did reach down to carefully take the contract first, setting it onto a side table nearest his elbow before reaching down and collecting Casper in his arms. The boy got another noisy kiss to the top of his curls before snuggling down happily against his Uncle Franklin’s side. 

Samuel poured himself more brandy and said, “So like we were sayin’, kid. It’s tradition. When a big thing happens, it goes under the pool table.”

Casper toyed with a button on his Uncle’s vest. “What else is under the pool table?” 

“Let’s see…” Franklin leaned back. “When each’a us moved away. That one ta’ Boston. Us two ta’ Chicago. When I got my first gig. Sammy’s first grant. Stephen’s job-”

“You bein’ born,” Stephen mused. 

Casper looked up. Around him, Franklin’s arms tightened.

Off to the side, the ghost held his breath. 

“Really?”

“Mmhm.” Stephen swished his whiskey round the glass, watching it. His free hand, now without a child to hold, flexed uselessly. “We… weren’t there for it.”

The child’s face fell. He glanced up at the Uncle who held him, the one to his side, and the one who had decided to stay. “Why not?”

“Just weren’t,” said Stephen, a tick in his jaw. 

The ghost of Casper looked up at Amelia. “Why-”

“J.T. didin’t allow them to be,” she said, softly. “He never told them it had happened. They found out after the newspaper was on their front steps. I don’t know if they’d have come. Franklin probably. Samuel with him. But Stephen was a different creature before all this. Still. He never got the chance to decide.”

“… why would my dad-?”

“That’s a question for later, dear,” she said, pointing back to the scene. “Watch.” 

“Nelly scratched that one,” said Franklin. “An old kitchen knife. She’s lucky she didn’t lose a finger!”

“Yeah, well,” Samuel raised his glass, “you were cryin’ her a river about puttin’ it there over the phone. Don’t think she could’a left it bare. Always were a sob, weren’t ya.” He squinted at the fire. “I think that’s the last one?”

“Not hardly!” Boomed Franklin. Casper flinched.

Stephen made a move to get up from his chair. “Watch it, Franklin.” 

The big man mumbled, “Sorry, bulbhead,” squeezing him again. “Anyway! We marked it again back before Sammy an’ I went back to work. When ol’ Stretch decided to extend his stay the first time around.”

“He wasn’t always gonna stay extra?” the boy asked.

“Original plan was one year,” Franklin said. “But, whadda’ya know? Yer Uncle Stephen realized that he’d be pretty lonely back in Boston without ya.”

Blue eyes wide, Casper turned towards Stephen’s chair.

Stephen shrugged, snatching his cigar from the table with his free hand, giving it something to do. His eyes kept fluttering over to Casper, held in Franklin’s lap. 

Casper’s eyes didn’t lose their gleam. He was grasping hard onto Franklin’s arm. The boy, like the man who held him, had rarely shied from emotion, and it showed. “You stayed for me?” 

It was like his own importance to others had never been considered. 

Casper, watching it with his own eyes burning, knew the feeling well. 

Not knowing if you’re wanted. 

Not sure if you ever were. 

Stephen lowered his cigar, smoke curling around him. “Not like it was a tough decision ta make.” Ears red, he offered the boy a shy smile. “Yer pretty easy ta like, Cas.”

Casper’s cheeks went pink and he hugged Franklin’s arm tighter. “You’re pretty easy to like, too, Uncle Stephen.”

“D’awwww,” Franklin cooed.

“If I had a nickel for everytime I heard _that_ , I’d have a nickel,” Sammy chuckled.

Stephen tapped his cigar over the ashtray. “Is this what it’s gonna be like everytime you bozos come home now? Just sap oozin’ out the walls all day long?”

“Only if I’m lucky!” Franklin gathered the boy up in his arms, rocking him and blowing a raspberry on his stomach, making the boy erupt in giggles.

When the tickling ceased, Casper grinned breathlessly up at his uncle. “So... we add another carving for today?”

“You got it,” the big man affirmed. “What should it say this time?”

“Hmmm.” The boy tapped his chin. “What did it say _last_ time?”

“Think we wrote ‘Stephen stayin’.”

“Well, how ‘bout ‘Uncle Stephen staying _forever’!”_

“Sounds good to me!”

The pair of them turned to Stephen, expectantly. 

He blinked. “What? Ya mean _now?_ ”

“No time like the present!” Franklin was on his feet in an instant, still carrying Casper. The child scrambled in his arms, moving to hang his arms around the man’s neck, shifting to sling himself across his back instead. Franklin grasped his legs. “C’mon, boys, hup-to!”

“Hup-to!” Casper mimicked, raising a triumphant fist.

The little group filed out of the room, Stephen grumbling about _never gettin’ to sit for more than five minutes_ while Samuel excitedly began explaining the rules of billiards to Casper, leaving the two spirits alone at the hearth.

“Well, that was _quite_ a Christmas, wasn’t it?” Amelia got to her feet, brushing away soot that wasn’t there from her skirts. “Come along now, we’ve got lots still to see.”

* * *

They were moving through the foyer, Amelia mentally preparing the next memory when she paused. “Oh wait.”

“What?” At her side, Casper glanced around. The Christmas decorations still hung from the railings, but the air was thick with a post-celebration stillness. “Is there more here?”

“Just a little thing.” She pointed and they watched Stephen trot down the stairs in his regular Tuesday suit (looking much more put together than they’d just left him), with one hand tucked in his jacket. “But it’s a particular favorite of mine.”

They followed him to the kitchen which was full of dirty breakfast dishes and not much else. He glanced around, checked the back stairs.

“What’s he looking for?” Casper asked.

“More like ‘who’.” Amelia grinned.

When whoever it was didn’t appear, the lanky man slipped an envelope out of the inner pocket of his jacket and laid it gently on the kitchen table. He sucked in a breath, let it out heavily, turned to leave-

-and found Ms. Danvers watching him from the doorway. “Good morning,” she said, suspicion lacing her words.

“Mornin’.” His spine went ramrod straight and he tugged at his vest. 

“Is there a reason you’re lurking in my kitchen unattended?”

“Technically it’s _my-_ ” He stalled halfway through the sentence when she raised an eyebrow, cleared his throat. “Just, uh, just droppin’ off yer bonus. Didn’t get a chance yesterday.”

“Oh.” Her expression softened and her hands left her hips. “Well thank you.”

“Not like ya didn’t earn it and _then some_.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Ya really saved my skin a couple’a times this year.”

A small smile curled her mouth and she drew closer. “More than a couple of times.”

He chuckled, side-stepping around her towards the door. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, just wanted you to know I appreciated it, that’s all.”

She crossed to the table and picked up the envelope. “Well, the appreciation is appreciated,” she said, her cheeks dusted pink.

“Right. Yeah. Okay then.” He turned, took two steps back out into the foyer, when they all heard the _riiiiip_ of the envelope being torn open. He froze mid-step, a dawning horror twisting his features.

Casper barely had time to ask _what’s his problem_ when the man was spinning on his heel and hurrying back into the kitchen, talking a mile a minute, “YaknowwhatonsecondthoughtIdon’tthinkIsignedthecheckIshouldtakethatback-”

But Ms. Danvers already had a piece of paper in her hand that _definitely_ wasn’t a check. The pink in her cheeks had deepened and her smile had widened. “You know your metaphors are just as dismal as when you were a teenager.”

“Nell, please, let me-”

She held the paper up, as far out of his reach as she could manage, and the spirits could make out the distinct looping handwriting. “My eyes are as dark as oak tree bark? Well, at least it _rhymes_.”

 _“Nell…_ ”

She put on a dramatic voice. “ _Your lips are as soft as that dog I saw last week_. You’re a regular Shakespeare!” 

Amelia clucked her tongue. “Poor man. James used to fancy himself a poet, too.”

Casper choked on a laugh. “Really??”

“Mmm. Once said that I was as shapely as a rhombus and that my curls reminded him of the shower loofah.” 

In the background, Ms. Danvers was standing on a chair loudly reciting _your hair is as golden as a field of dried up grass - oh Stephen, you shouldn’t have!_

“He’s lucky my other uncles aren’t here,” Casper said, smirking.

“Indeed.” Amelia matched his mirthful expression. “Come on, let’s keep moving.”

“Do we have to?”

“They’re going to kiss again in a moment.”

He made a face. 

“Come on then.”

He lingered just a moment more, watched his uncle grab the housekeeper by the waist and move to hoist her back to the floor but pause instead, holding her so they were nose to nose. He made another face- “Grown-up stuff.” -and turned to follow Amelia.

* * *

It was Harvey’s idea to search the office again. 

But unlike Stretch’s previous attempts to toss everything he found on the ground, Harvey’s approach was methodical. 

“We need to see what sparks something,” Harvey explained. He walked across the floor, kicking gently at a few papers along the way. “Are you sure it’s in this office?”

Stretch nodded, floating just above the shattered whiskey glass. “Positive.” 

“Then there’s a chance it’s still here. Any clue what it might look like?”

All he got was a halfhearted shake of the head. 

“Alright. So…” He looked at all the papers. “Let’s start here.”

It was a slow process. Fifteen minutes of just picking through the paper, another fifteen to begin stacking and organizing it again. He held up each one for the frustrated ghost, putting it down on the desk when it didn’t spark anything. 

Stretch eventually insisted on going through the filing cabinets again. 

“They’re papers,” he said, evenly. “A few of ‘em.”

“This size?” Harvey held up one from the desk. 

Stretch nodded. “Yeah. Don’t remember much about’m.” He winced, listening to the voice behind his eyes. “They were… made by two different people. He thinks - _I think_ \- Casper made one of’m. Someone helped, but he made one. And the other…” He winced again. “Not much comin’ up about that. But I’ll know it when I see it.”

Harvey nodded, watching him tumble through the filing cabinets again with more scrutiny and care than before. He didn’t want to get in the way, so he leaned against the desk, looking around the room. 

He hadn’t gotten a good look at it before. 

He didn’t mean to analyze. It was a habit. A habit that he’d made into his job. His _life_. And so it was impossible not to begin noticing. 

It was neat. Orderly. Everything in the room had its own space, which seemed leagues from the ghost he knew. Though, from the way he was now stacking papers on the floor, quelling his panic, it seemed like the dregs of that personality were well preserved. 

He distantly wondered if he’d get to see more of that over time. 

There wasn’t much more to notice about the space, but Harvey’s brows shot up when he rounded the desk and noticed the wood on the interior. 

“Who carved in the desk?”

“What?” Stretch turned around, another paper in hand. 

Harvey pointed beneath the box-shaped desk. “Who carved here?”

“Oh. Me. My brothers. Casper-”

“Casper?”

“Yeah. Helped him hold the-” He winced, shaking off the feeling. A new memory was surfacing, but he didn’t have the time to let it through. “I helped him carve it. Didn’t want him cutting off a finger or nothin’.” 

“That seems personal.”

“Was.” Another wince. “Never was allowed to personalize much with my Pa’ in the house. Think that was my way of rebelling against the man.”

Harvey nodded slowly, putting the information away for later sessions. But the idea still remained, and it nagged. 

“It seems _so_ personal,” he said again. 

Stretch mostly ignored him, going back to the filing cabinet. “So?”

“So. No one lived in this house except for you. No one got the _chance_. Everything in this office is still here. And it’s _personal_.” He touched the stack of Casper’s drawings on the desk. “Everything here- you added personal touches. To the desk. To what you kept.”

“ _So?”_

“Where’s the pictures?” 

“On the desk, doc.” Three more papers were out and in his hand. 

“No. I mean the walls.” Harvey looked around. “You personalized _so much_. You made this place into yours after your father. Doesn’t that seem odd?”

“Not really. You gonna help me look, or not?”

But Harvey was overtaken by the thought. He scanned around the room, looking around at the oddly bare walls. There was nothing to indicate someone had personalized the room. And yet, the man floating by the cabinets had done his best to make everything his. 

It didn’t add up. 

Until Harvey saw the nail. 

On the East-most wall, it was hard to see, especially under the dim lighting. But it was there. A nail, sticking out of the wall. Moving closer, he could see an outline there, too. The paint faded where something had been removed after a long while. 

When he got too close, something under his foot crunched. 

Looking down, he saw a piece of glass, like someone had too-quickly cleaned. 

“Stretch?”

“ _What?”_

“What was here?”

“Little busy, doc.”

“Just one second.”

The ghost looked towards his doctor, frustration thick, blinking in the dim office light. “Fine. What d’ya want me ta’-” His frown faltered and he flew closer. He raised his hand up, drew it back sharply, wincing. “Shit.”

“There’s _no_ other nails, Stretch,” Harvey said. “Not one. What was important enough to hang up?”

The ghost was rubbing his temple, right eye twitching. “I don’t-”

“Another photo?”

“No.”

“A drawing Casper made?”

“No.”

“Something work-related?”

“ _No._ ”

Harvey slapped a hand on the wall. “Let’s try it this way - what are you _feeling_ looking at this?”

“Doc, I don’t-”

“Happy? Sad? Angry?”

“Yes.”

“To which one?”

“Fuckin’ _all_ of ‘em!” the ghost snapped, clutching his head.

“That’s okay,” Harvey said, trying not to let his excitement at a breakthrough bleed into his voice. “Take them one at a time. What about this-” he patted the empty wall again, “-made you happy?”

Stretch winced again. “Kid made it for me.”

“What about it hurts?”

“I…” Teeth clenched, the ghost shook his head again. “I promised ‘im-”

“Promised him what?”

Violet eyes shot open. “We - _I_ signed it.”

“Signed- it was a contract?”

“Yeah.” He looked exhausted, like the act of pulling the memory up from the depths had drained him. But there was the barest hint of a smile on his face.

“Between you and Casper.”

A translucent hand grazed the wall, and the smile tinged with grief. “Yeah.”

“What happened to it? In a room so completely untouched, why isn’t it here?”

But the ghost was suddenly back at the filing cabinets, wrenching the one on the top right open. “ _Shit shit shit shit shit_.” His fingers drew across the faded color folders inside. 

“Stretch!”

“The contract was on the wall,” he hissed, voice hitching. “But there was somethin’ else. I remember. I put it _here_. I hid it. I _hid_ it.”

“Hid what!”

“I didn’t hide the contract.” He kept going, ignoring Harvey’s voice. “Didn’t hide the contract. Didn’t think about it. _Stupid. Fuckin’ stupid_. But I hid _this_. I knew I’d have to. Because of _him._ ”

“Him? Him _who?”_

Stretch wasn’t listening. In the back of the cabinet, past every folder, was a cigar box. He wrenched it out. “Knew he’d look for it. Knew he’d try ta’ find this. That’s why I kept it safe right-” 

The box opened. 

The hairs on the back of Harvey’s neck rose. The light above the desk flickered, and the room's temperature took a dive down. 

There was silence. 

And there was nothing. 

The ghosts hands holding the empty box were shaking. 

“Stretch…?” Harvey extended a careful hand. “Stretch. Or- Stephen? You need to breathe.” 

“It was here…” The ghost's voice was soft as a realization overcame him. “The contract. That was on the wall. And my paperwork for- I kept it hidden _here_ …” 

“Stretch?”

“The contract and… and _these_ \- They were… they were together. I needed them. I needed them for- I kept them… they were…” His eyes were flickering. Panic. Fear. Anger. Over and over again. 

“Needed them for _what_ , Stretch!”

The box dropped to the floor. 

When Stretch spoke again, his voice was once more a braid of two. His face contorted into one of absolute fury. “ _He took them_.”

Harvey couldn’t stop Stretch from diving through the floor, but he knew enough to put the notebook to the side and chase after him. 

Somehow, some way, Harvey knew exactly where the ghost and his other half were going. 

* * *

As Amelia climbed the stairs, the little ghost floating behind, the sound of hammering jolted him out of his thoughts. The noise was coming from Stephen’s office, and he peeked his head in, to find the memory of his uncle laying a hammer down on his desk. “All right, short stuff, ready?”

Beside him, holding a large rectangular frame in both hands, the memory of himself nodded. “Ready!”

Stephen crouched, grasped the boy behind by the waist, and with a grunt, hoisted him up so he could reach the empty nail on the wall. “Careful now. Last thing we need is glass all over the floor.”

Tongue out in concentration, Casper held out the frame, easing it slowly down over the nail. He released it one finger at a time until both hands were up and the frame was still in place. “Done!”

Stephen set him back on the floor, raised a hand to straighten the frame imperceptibly, and then took a step back. “Whadd’ya think?”

“Perfect!” Casper declared, hugging his uncle’s legs.

The tall man chuckled, reached down to squeeze the boy’s shoulder, ruffling his hair. “Nice work.”

“You too.” The boy went to the desk and picked up the hammer with both hands. “You didn’t even hurt yourself! I’m gonna go tell Ms. Danvers! She’s gonna be impressed!”

“Ya don’t hafta- Cas!” But the boy was already trotting out of the room, so the man had no choice but to follow.

Amelia laughed as they faded away, then noticed Casper floating into the room. “Penny for your thoughts?” she asked, following him through. She took a seat on top of the desk while he floated just below the new addition to the wall. 

“All Kat and I found were pictures of… of my- of J.T..” He began. He floated up off the floor towards the contract held carefully within the frame. He read it over behind the glass, ignoring the swelling in his throat. “We didn’t have much. But we _had_ them. I never found… I mean. _None_ of this was there.”

Amelia drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around them. “You’d only been searching for a little while. Just because you didn’t find them, doesn’t mean that these things aren’t still here..”

“But where _are_ they?” Casper gestured at the contract, at the door where the memories had just left , frustration clear. “We couldn’t find _any_ of this stuff!”

“You didn’t,” she said. “My daughter, on the other hand…”

Casper jerked around to stare at her, floating up so they were eye-to-eye. “ _Kat_.” 

“Mmhm. She found quite a bit more yesterday. Right before I came around.”

“ _What_? _Where?_ ”

“The attic.”

He shook his head. “We _searched_ the attic ages ago. There’s nothing else up there!”

“You just didn’t know where to look.” Slowly, she unwound, letting her legs dangle down from the desk. “These important things, they’d been compiled by someone. Put into a box or two and hidden away in the attic.”

“ _Hidden_.” He shook his head, rubbing his temples. “Why were they _hidden_?”

She smiled. “Another memory,” said Amelia. “We’ll get there soon. But we can’t rush. There’s more to see.”

“ _Why_? Why can’t you just _tell_ me-”

“Not how this works, dear.” Amelia smiled that frustratingly patient smile of hers. “You and I have our own contract. Spoken, but just as binding. We see everything, and _then_ you get to make a choice. But that means we see things in the order they need to be seen. So for _now_ …” She got to her feet, looking around the room, “just know that my daughter is going through her own journey recovering secrets, and that these objects are still in this house, just waiting to be seen.”

“ _Wait_.” He flew around to hover in front of Amelia, cutting her off. “What do you mean _waiting to be seen?_ Seen by _who?_ ”

“By the people they belong to, of course,” said Amelia, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “If only my daughter would stop holding onto her preconceived notions as to who’s worthy of seeing them and who isn’t.”

His eyes widened. “ _No_.”

“‘No’ what?”

“ _No!”_ He clutched the sides of his head. “She _can’t_ show them anything!”

“Why not?”

“They’ll _destroy them_.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You don’t understand!”

“Don’t I?”

“If they see them-” he twisted to look back at the contract, hanging so innocently in its frame, “if they see _any of this_ , it’ll be destroyed. They don’t like knowing these things! They barely wanted me looking at pictures of my _dad!_ They went right into the fireplace.”

“They did.”

“I’ll never see those again!”

“No,” she said, plainly. “You won’t.”

“And if they know that Kat’s looking, if she shows them any of this- you don’t understand!”

“I think it’s the other way around, dear.” She put a hand on her hip. “You’re not the only one grappling with things today. Right now, two of your uncles are scouring the attic with my daughter, remembering who they were.” She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, she was smiling. “Franklin just hugged Samuel for the first time in a hundred years. Of course now you know them by -what are those _charming_ monikers you use? Fatso and Stinkie, right?”

His mouth fell open but no sound came out.

“And my husband is having a moment of his own as well. This old house is getting quite a shake-up, thanks to you and my daughter.” 

“But…” He looked back up at the contract. “My Uncle Stinkie and Fatso, they might not do anything. But my Uncle _Stretch-”_

“Like I said, Casper. All of these tokens have been hidden. But some?” Her eyes flitted towards the contract. “Some better than others. In places not even my daughter could guess.”

He watched her, hands cradled over his chest. 

Amelia breezed over to the wall, gazing up at the contract, still crisp and new in its frame. “Trust me, Casper, when this finally makes its appearance, it’s not going anywhere _near_ the fireplace.”

* * *

Kat sat on the attic floor, piles of books on either side. Around her, the two ghosts had been pulling things out of crates that had been postmarked from Chicago. 

Stinkie had found them, just by the taxidermy bear. 

Kat would have overlooked them by a mile. The ghost was not so quick. 

“Fatso! Take a look!”

“Are those-”

“ _Holy shit! Might be!_ Give me a hand with the lid!”

Some of it was less than useful - more clothes, antique textbooks, playbills - but whenever they found something that ‘sparked’ as they’d begun calling it, they set it down near her. So she was now also surrounded by odds and ends.

A framed, crayon-drawn treasure map and a hand-painted paperweight that had been Casper’s presents for them that Christmas they remembered as ‘rough, but good’.

It had been a good Christmas, they told her. A great Christmas. 

“Casper’s dad wasn’t there,” Kat said, feeling like drawing her hood up and hiding in it. The books to the side were still glaring at her. 

“No,” Fatso said. “He wasn’t. But it was still a good Christmas. A great Christmas.”

She watched him, scuffing the heel of her sock against the floor, dragging through the dust. “Why?”

“Don’t really remember,” Fatso said. “Somethin’... something happened.”

Stinkie agreed with a hum. His own present was there, and he turned it around in his hand. “It was… something. Some news, I think.”

Fatso nodded slowly. “S’a dark spot,” he said, finally. “For now, at least.”

His musings were cut short when Stinkie looked down at both their hands, holding small tokens of childhood, and asked, “where’s Stretch’s?”

Fatso turned. “What?”

“Stretch’s.” He held up his gift, giving it a wiggle. “Ours are here. Where’s his.”

“Maybe he didn’t get one,” Kat said, voice exactly as gruff as she intended. 

“No,” said Fatso. “He got one.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Somethin’ big. Or… important, I think… Really, really important.”

Kat felt her skin crawl. “How important?”

“ _Very_. Enough to clear up some dark spots, I think.” He looked around. “I mean… ours came from the Chicago boxes… so there’s gotta be Boston ones around here, right?”

“Gotta be,” Stinkie agreed. He clapped his hands together. “Well. We’ve got a whole attic to search. They’ve gotta be around here somewhere.”

Kat rolled her eyes, content to stay seated. The last thing Stretch needed was her help. 

Fatso caught on fast enough, grabbing her arm. “Busy hands make light work, Kathleen. Move it.”

With some reluctance, she did. 

They found a few things of little interest. 

Some more clothes. 

Jewelry that Fatso _insisted_ belonged to someone besides Casper’s mother. 

Kat brought out the dress at one point, and received only another shake of the head from the brothers. No. Not his mother’s either. 

The Dress of Many Buttons was folded away once more. 

From there, there was silverware, an old pocket watch with an inscription they couldn’t read in the dim attic light, a few more moth-eaten hats, the sled and a crystal decanter that had managed to not only _not_ break but also still held what Stinkie had assured her was top-shelf brandy.

Eventually she got bored of picking through objects that weren’t helping her cause and wandered off on her own, picking half-heartedly through a few boxes, still angry about the boxy letters in the books. Her dad’s words were twisting around her head. 

_Helping him means helping them, too_.

But what they were finding so far - the books, the notes within - weren’t doing his father any favors. And she needed to do him _all_ the favors. 

Because it’s what Casper needed. 

His _father_. 

_You’d better have something good coming up, dude_ , she thought as loudly as she could manage hoping that somewhere out there, an unseen ghost was listening. _Your son is lost. And we need to get him back. But I’m going to need more than this_. She scrubbed her brow, leaving behind gritty, gray dust on her temple. _I promised. But I need a little help._

The thought about the box downstairs. 

J.T.’s box. 

If his memory scattered around the house insisted on being _unhelpful_ , then maybe, just maybe, it was finally time-

“Kat?” Fatso’s soft voice drew her attention up. His eyes were shining. The air around her got colder. Some of the sheets they’d dragged off boxes fluttered. “You should see these.”

She looked at his shaking hands. There were yellow, folded letters between his fingers. “... what are they?” 

“Just- come see.”

She drew closer, sitting back in the spot she’d abandoned, folding her legs beneath her as the familiar handwriting of her best friend at age five stared up at her from the floor.

‘UNCLE FRANKLIN,

I ASCD UNCLE STEPHEN HOW MANY MOR DAYS TIL YU VISIT BUT HE SAYS THATS WAT CALNDERS AR FOR. HOO HAS TIM TO COWNT ALL THAT?

I HOP ITS SOON.

LUV LOTS,

CASPR’

She brought a hand down, brushing her fingers along the uneven lettering. Her eyes moved across the floor, at the dozens more just like it. “Are these… _all_ from him?”

“Yeah.” Fatso nodded, he handed her the one he’d been holding and plucked another from the pile.

She read the one now in her other hand. It must have been from a year or so after the first, as the penmanship had improved.

‘UNCLE FRANKLIN,

I PLAYD AT BENJI’S HOUSE YESTERDAY. HE HAS A COW!

DID U NO THAT COWS AR WERE MILK COMS FROM? 

I DIDNT BUT NOW I DO!

LUV LOTS,

CASPER’

“He had friends,” she said softly. 

“‘Course he did,” said the ghost seated across from her.

“Just never thought about it before.” She felt guilty admitting it. 

“The kid could make friends with _anyone_ ,” Fatso said, delicately slipping paper from another envelope. “But he had a little group at school that he talked about non-stop.” He unfolded the paper and chuckled. “See?” He held it out so she could read it.

‘UNCLE FRANKLIN

CHARLI ASKD WHY WE DONT BILLD TRAIN TRAKS TO THE MOON.

WHY DONT WE?

IF WE DID WUD U RID IT WITH ME?

LUV LOTS,

CASPER’

“And look-” He flipped it over, to reveal an illustration to accompany the thought. “Always loved the ones with pictures best.”

“So you guys kept in touch after you left.”

“Had a scheduled weekly phone call,” he said with a nod, drawing the paper back into his lap. “And once he started school, he started these.”

They kept reading. Once or twice the letters mentioned something momentous (a birthday greeting, or congratulations on a new play), but mostly they reported things or asked questions that generally could have more easily been relayed over the phone. Thinking back to when she was little, she remembered what a _big deal_ it had been to get mail. The feeling transcended time apparently. 

There were letters her father had kept of her as a child. She’d seen them, stored away in his bedside table. They were full of useless mundanities. How many rocks she’d seen at summer camp. Questions about Saturn and whether or not it was married (and which planet did he think was the lucky one). A new book she absolutely hated, but loved to read anyway. She’d never really understood why he’d kept them. What use they had beyond _being_. 

Watching the change in the ghost before her - a ghost who had not seen his nephew’s letters in little over a century - she was starting to get an idea what they might have been for. 

The shift was jarring. 

Long gone was the loud, callous, air-headed specter who’d made her jump out of her skin on more than a few occasions. In his place, sat the quiet ghost of a man with a piece of yellowed paper in his hands and tears in his eyes.

“Kid _loved_ ta write,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

Kat wasn’t even sure he remembered she was _there_. She kept quiet.

“When he first started, Stretch called me up, warnin’ me they were comin’ and that he couldn’t keep the kid from writin’ down _every_ little thing that popped into his head. ‘Pologizin’, like it was gonna bug me to get so many.” He snorted. “Probably ‘cause _he_ couldn’t stand it. Soon as phones got popular, Stretch only wrote when he absolutely had to. But he didn’t get it. _He_ got ta have the kid talkin’ his ear off all day long. But these were as close as I got to that.” He drew in a shaky breath and pressed the letter to his chest, blinking at the ceiling.

The living teen watched him wide-eyed. 

“I _forgot_ that.” The deep baritone wobbled as he looked back down at the letter. “The kid spent his allowance on postage ta tell me how many gulls he counted on the bluffs in one afternoon, and I _forgot_ it. Spent the last hundred years treatin’ ‘im like he didn’t hang the moon.”

The tears that had been waiting in the wings were now rolling down his cheeks, and Kat, unthinking, reached out to touch his hand. He caught it up so quick, held so tight that her fingers went numb, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she crawled on her knees over closer, bringing her other hand to his shoulder.

“Sorry.” He shook his head, swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. 

She had wanted to stay mad at them. So _badly_. The idea of any of them feeling remorse for what they’d done, for how they’d mistreated her best friend, it had been the _last_ thing she’d expected when she’d started them down this path.

But maybe-

-she’d hoped.

“I’m sorry you forgot,” she found herself saying.

“You ‘an me both, kid.” He put the letter down and brought his hand to rest atop their already-joined ones, took a long, steadying breath. “Thanks.”

Stinkie floated over, another armload of treasures ready. “Waterworks?” he asked, without a hint of teasing in his voice. Only concern. “What happened, big guy?”

Fatso released Kat’s hand to poke through the pile of letters, picked one out that wasn’t addressed to him, and handed it to the addressee. “Our little pen-pal. Remember?”

His brother set his armload down, took hold of the envelope. “Oh _wow_ ,” he said. “Ain’t seen these since…” He slipped the letter out, let the envelope flutter to the floor.

Kat pushed up from the floor, hovering over Stinkie’s shoulder to read along. The handwriting was neater, and the spelling had improved, so it must have been from when he was older. At least nine or ten. 

‘Uncle Sammy,

I found a new plant out on the bluff this morning. New to me, anyway. And I didn’t see it in the book you gave me. I picked one and I’m pressing it now, but that won’t be ready for a while yet. So I did a diagram in the meantime. Uncle Stephen says it’s just a weed, but I know there’s no such things as weeds. Just native species trying to reclaim their territory. Right?

I tried to include all the information you’d need to identify it. But if I missed something, let me know and I’ll go back and look again!

Love lots,

Casper’

“Holy _hell_.” The smaller ghost sank to the floor beside his brother.

Standing above them, Kat watched as the pair sat together, silently.

Watched Fatso bring an arm up around Stinkie’s shoulders.

Watched Stinkie lean into the embrace without a moment’s hesitation.

Watched.

And thought.

Fatso took a deep breath, clapped his brother on the back. “We gotta make this right, Stink. We just _gotta_.”

Stinkie looked back down at the letter, blinking hard. “We will.”

Kat sat back, watched the two clasp hands, and slipped her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. She didn’t want to look at the letters anymore, read more evidence of how much Casper had loved the pair in front of her. Angrily fumbling, she snatched up another book from the pile, frowned down at the _Next year at Whipstaff_. Why couldn’t there have been a letter from the son to his father? Just one. That was all she needed.

She thumbed through the pages of _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ and a rough edge jabbed her fingertip. She paused, brow furrowed. From between the last page and the back cover, she pulled out the papers. 

She’d forgotten they were there. 

Found just hours before, shoved back in with little thought, it emerged again. 

Except, it wasn’t just _one_. 

Picking it from the pages, she was surprised to find that the single paper was actually a few pieces of paper, folded over and stapled together. She unfolded them, eyes scanning quickly.

The looping, steepled handwriting was all-too-familiar now.

He’d filled in the lines between all the typed out, fading legal jargon that she couldn’t understand much. There were words like _circumnavigate_ and _arbitration_ and _force majeure_. 

But there were some terms she did understand.

_Client S. McFadden consents to the sale of one WHIPSTAFF MANOR and titled land. Client S. McFadden understands that he hereby relinquishes his inheritance, and understands that all subsequent lines in the family will lose access to inheritance once WHIPSTAFF MANOR and its titles are sold._

She flipped through to the second and third pages. There were two sets of handwriting on those. More legal talk. Words about petitions and suits. 

Throughout it all, she recognized two other names, at least. 

_JOSIAH THOMAS MCFADDEN_

_CASPER MCFADDEN_

But they were surrounded by a sea of confusion, and she finally flipped back to the first page.

“Guys?”

Her voice brought their attention to her.

“You said the house didn’t belong to J.T., right?”

“Yeah, why?” Stinkie asked.

“If Stretch were to sell it-” she asked, gripping the papers in her hand tightly. “-what would happen to J.T. and Casper?”

The brothers exchanged a look. Fatso shrugged. “Wouldn’t be much they could do. They’d be put out. Why?”

She was glaring down at tall typed letters _PETITION OF SALE_ , which were glaring back at her. “Because I think I figured out why Stretch stayed longer than you guys.”

“What?” Stinkie moved closer, hand outstretched. “That don’t sound right-”

“I’m staring at it right here.” She held the pack of papers up, but didn’t hand them over. “He was going to sell their home out from under them!”

Stinkie winced, a memory beginning to edge forward. “No. That ain’t- that ain’t right. That’s not _possible_.”

“It says it right here! The sale of Whipstaff Manor! His _inheritance_. Your inheritance!” 

“He wouldn’t,” Stinkie said again, floating up. 

“J.T. was next to inherit. That’s what you said.” She shook her head. “Did he even have _anything?_ Or- or was this all he had?” She scanned the papers, blood boiling again. 

_I’ve got you_ , she thought. _I’ve got you now, bastard._

“Kat…” Fatso was moving towards her again. She moved just as swiftly back. 

“This was his plan. He was going to sell the house. Take _everything_ down with him. Give up his inheritance and _throw it away_ . For… for _money_. See?” At the bottom, an asking price that could have made her head spin. 

“Kat.” Fatso was moving nearer too. “Lemme see that.”

She tucked it back into the book, scrambling to her feet. “No! He wasn’t some saint who swooped in to- he was going to-”

Above their heads, the dim attic lights flickered, and they all paused, looking up.

That’s when they heard Harvey shouting from two stories below them.

* * *

Heart pounding, the book tucked under one arm, she took each staircase two steps at a time. The shouting was getting louder as she neared the library door-

Her father’s voice, commanding.

And Stretch’s, furious.

As the sconces pulsed on the walls, she heaved the doors open.

Found her father staring up-

-at the ghost holding a box just over the hearth. 

“Stretch! _Put it down_!” 

Fatso found his voice again beside her, floating forward with his brother just behind. “Come on, Stretch. You don’t want to do this.”

The ghost’s fingers tightened around the lip of the box. The words, _Casper’s Father_ , watched the little group, pleading for help.

“ _Stretch_ ,” Fatso warned again. “Put it down. Let’s just… let’s just _talk_.”

Kat couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t see anything beyond the box and the ghost and the flames that were reaching for the precious memories held just within the wooden slats.

She could only stand there, and feel the room getting tighter and tighter around her. 

She’d promised. 

She’d promised Casper she’d help him. 

She’d promised his father, too. 

She’d promised J.T. that she’d help his son get back, and that he’d remember. 

That he’d remember _his father_. 

Kat Harvey wasn’t about to break those promises now. 

She didn’t know where she’d found the power to scream as loud as she had, but her shout practically rattled the whole house when she unhinged her jaw and bellowed;

“STOP!” 

And the room _stopped_. 

The ghosts, her father, they all stopped to stare at the girl standing in the library with her hand extended out towards the chaos. 

“That belongs to _Casper_ ,” she said, lifting her chin. “Not _you_.”

Stretch blinked, almost as if he was processing what was going on around him for the first time. His eyes drifted from the people to the ghosts, and then down to the box in his hands. 

And just like that, the anger was back. 

“ _He deserves it_ ,” Stretch hissed. “After what he did-”

“After what _he_ \- he didn’t do anything!”

“Kat,” Harvey cautioned. “Kat, wait-”

But she wasn’t listening anymore, finally stepping forward onto the carpet. “After what _he_ did! All Casper’s father did was _exist_.”

“You don’t know that,” he hissed. “You don’t know what he _took_.”

“Do you?”

Stretch opened his mouth, and closed it again. 

“You don’t even _know_ any of what happened! You’re just… you’re just _feeling_ things and assuming-”

“ _No_.”

“-but you don’t have any of the memories to prove it!” She took another step forward, glaring. Her heart was racing, blood beating in her ears. “Casper’s dad _loved him_.”

“He wasn’t there,” Stretch barked. “You don’t know-”

“He might have not been there as much as he wanted to be, but you don’t get to destroy him over it! He loved his son.”

“He took something,” said Stretch. “He _took something away_.”

“So what!”

“It was _mine_!”

“So you’re going to take _this_ away! And you’re going to burn _everything_ Casper has of him because of that?” She was seeing red now. Her nails bit into her palm. “Because he… because he _took something_ from you. How selfish do you have to be!”

Behind her, she could feel Fatso and Stinkie holding their breath. Could feel her Father’s gaze boring a hole against her spine. 

“Put. The box. Down.”

Stretch’s hands tightened around it. 

“Put it down. Casper deserves it.”

“ _Casper_ ,” he said through clenched teeth. “Casper isn’t coming back because of _him_.”

Her father drew in a sharp breath. “Stretch…? What does that mean…?” 

Violet eyes flashed. “Because of what he _did_. Casper is here because...” He closed his eyes quickly, wincing. The box began to tremble. The lights above them were flickering again, electricity buzzing on and off like an anxious hive waiting to burst. “He- he took… _he took them_.”

“Took _what_!”

The box began to slip as Stretch’s fingers loosened, getting closer to the fire. 

Kat could smell burning; like the beginning of a campfire. 

“Stretch…” Before she could say anything, Stinkie was quickly adding his own voice to the room again. His eyes were flickering to the bottom of the box where the flames were licking away, leaving dark streaks in the wood. “Stretch. Listen to me. We- we’ve been _rememberin’_. Little at a time. Maybe… maybe you could join us? Actually look through the pictures with us.”

Kat turned to say something, but he held up his hand. She fell silent. 

“He took something.” Stretch’s voice was softening. When he opened his eyes, there was a sadness that was almost uncharacteristic of the ghost. A hollow, burning sadness. “He- I _know_ he took-”

“You ain’t gonna know what he took if you burn all his shit, Stretch.”

It was a good argument. Kat had to hand it to the ghost. He was making sense. And the logic was apparently running off to his eldest brother, whose shoulders were lowering. 

“We can open his box,” said Stinkie. “If ya’ just… calm down. Take a breath. We can open it. Maybe- maybe whatevah he took is in there.”

“I’m sure it was all a big misunderstanding,” said Fatso, nodding. “But we can solve it!”

“They’re right, Stretch,” said Harvey. 

“J.T. ain’t even here, man,” said Stinkie. “He ain’t here. But… but Casper could be. If we just _work_ on this. Together. But there won’t be any chance if we destroy everythin’ Casper’s got. So _please_. Give us the box. Let’s just… try to remember. Together. Okay?”

For a small beat of time, it seemed as if it had worked. 

“We can remembah,” Stinkie said, drifting a little closer to his brother. “If ya’ just… give them here. We can remembah.”

The scene felt too familiar. 

Stretch by a fire.

Others on the opposite end, pleading. 

And just like before, Kat could only watch. 

Watch was the flames reached longingly for the box. 

Watch as Stretch’s form softened. 

Watch the ghost mull over the words. 

All she could do was _watch_. 

And she _hated_ it. 

She stood there, hands extended and trembling. 

Stretch looked over all of them. 

The softness clung by a thread before finally falling away. “He _deserves_ to be forgotten.” He lifted the box up to drop it into the flames. 

The ghosts shouted. 

Harvey screamed. 

And Kat-

Kat was done watching. 

She didn’t even know how she’d moved forward, but she was running past the ghosts, past her father, towards the fireplace, and her hands found the burning box. “ _No_!”

“Let it _go_!” Stretch snarled. “Fuckin’ let it go!”

“ _No_!”

“It needs ta’ go!”

“It. Belongs. To. Casper!” Every word was punctuated by a _tug_. 

The wood, weakened by time, began to groan. 

“It belongs _gone_.”

“It’s everything left of his dad!”

The box creaked again. The lights overhead flickered. 

“Casper don’t _need it_. JT ain’t _here_. We _are_.”

“Casper would be better off without you!” Kat tugged harder on the box. 

The lights were flickering more, now. 

“I want that kid _back_.”

“You’re the reason he’s gone!”

The lights began to sputter around them. Harvey ducked away as sparks flew from the sconces. The books on the shelves rattled and spilled off onto the floors, pages fluttering. “Kat, stop!”

She barely heard him over the wind. But she didn’t care. She just held on. Even as her hair whipped at her face, and the heat of the fire pushed around her. She held onto the box, and she pulled, glaring up at the horrified, violet eyes. 

“I promised,” she said, teeth bared. “I promised Casper I’d help! I promised _his father_ I’d help his son remember him!” 

“His father,” he hissed, voice cracking in time with the bursting lights, “deserves ta’ be forgotten!” 

“No,” Kat barked back. “If anyone deserves to be forgotten, it’s _you_.” 

The electricity whined. 

The room grew brighter, brighter, brighter.

Kat closed her eyes, but not fast enough to miss the fear and devastation on Stretch’s face before the noise and the lights got too big, too much, too _everywhere_. There was a crack from behind her. She ducked her head, sucking in a fast breath. 

The lights burst in a final shower of sparks and wind and noise as Kat tugged at the box one last time, falling backwards onto the carpet. The box cracked to the floor, wood splintering across the carpet and over the fallen girl. 

There was another shout. 

And then there was nothing. 

Silence. 

Stillness. 

And darkness. 

The only sounds were the breaths of the panting people around her, and the rain pattering on the windows outside. 

Kat opened her eyes slowly from where she lay on the carpet. She scanned the room. 

Her father was hiding next to the desk where he’d dove out of the way. Beside him, one of the loose bookshelves had fallen over, nearly hitting him on the way down. His glasses were broken beside his knee. Fatso was beside him, clutching his chest. He must have pushed Harvey out of the way when the shelf fell. Stinkie was on the other side of the room, where he’d kept himself from being thrown into the torrent by holding the drapes on the windows. Now they were slack in his hands, and he was puffing out deep breaths. 

The fire had been snuffed away by the wind, leaving behind nothing but glowing ash. 

The room's lights were out. 

A peek out the open library doors told her that all the lights were out. 

The house was a dark spot on the hill. 

She pulled herself onto her knees slowly. She was still shaking, and fell forward, hands catching on the carpet. Something pinched her bare palm, and she looked down. When she lifted her hand, a shard from the box fell back onto the carpet. 

The box. 

She blinked.

In the dim light from the windows, she could see the remains of the box in front of her. The twine that held them closed was wound like a waiting snake. And beneath the shards of wood…

Oh. 

_Oh_.

  
  
  
.  
  
  


.

.

Kat didn’t look up from the box. She couldn’t find her breath. Slowly picking bits of the box up and setting them to the side, moving them away from what had spilled out. Faces looked up at her. 

Around her, the room began to wake again. She didn’t notice. 

“Holy shit…” Her father finally sat up. “Holy _shit_.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” Fatso unwound. He looked up. “The lights are out?”

“Must’ve happened when Stretch burst the electricity.” Harvey touched the back of his head, wincing. “God, he must’ve burst them in the whole house.”

“Try the whole town,” Stinkie said, slowly releasing the drapes. “The powahs out all the way down. Don’t know how far.” 

Kat could barely hear them. She lifted a picture. It had been in a frame. A child’s strokes hand painted baseballs on the edges. The fall to the floor had shattered the glass, split the frame in half, and the photo slid out easily when she picked it up. Glass jingled onto the carpet. 

She held the picture in her hands. 

It shook in her fingers. 

“Shit…” Fatso murmured. “He really fucked it this time.”

Harvey nodded, touching the back of his head again. He slowly lifted himself, sitting with his back to the desk. “I’ve seen him like that before. But this was the biggest panic attack he’s had.”

“More like _attention mongering_ ,” Fatso grumbled. 

The therapist shook his head, pain blooming behind his eyes. He rubbed his temples. “This was different.”

“Was it?” Stinkie drifted towards them. “Because all I saw was him tryin’ ta’ compromise _everythin’_.”

There was a notch in Fatso’s voice as the realization fell over him. He lifted his head, locking eyes with his brother. “And… and Casper-”

“I swear,” Stinkie snarled. “I swear. If he _ruined this_ \- _Stretch! Hey Stretch! Where the hell are ya’!_ ” He spun around, facing the room. 

Silence. 

Stinkie tried again. “Stretch?”

Nothing. 

Fatso floated up. “ _Stretch_?”

Harvey shifted against the desk, looking around. “Did he _leave_?”

“I… I don’t think so…” Fatso said.

“He took off before.” Stinkie crossed his arms. “How’d ya find him then, Doc?”

“Followed the lights,” Harvey said, gesturing out at the darkness. “Not much hope of that this time.” He blew out a breath. “Shit. And we were _so_ close to something, too.”

Fatso lowered himself to the floor again, close to the therapist. “What kinda something?”

“Something that was going to fill in a lot of dark spots.” He squinted, wincing when he touched a spot beneath his ear. His fingertips came back spotted red, but he didn’t seem to care. “He and Stephen were looking for-”

“Wait, what?” Fatso asked, leaning closer. 

“Oh. Right. You guys missed a lot. Stephen - who I _think_ is a manifestation of Stretch’s memories - he’s who was talking, right before Stretch took off the first time.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. He and I had a pretty lengthy conversation up in the office, which was when he, or they, realized there was something, some specific item that would explain everything.”

“What was it?” Stinkie asked, still pacing the room, as if Stretch might have been lurking in the shadows.

“They didn’t know. Just that they’d know it when they found it. And then he started going on about how ‘ _he_ ’ must’ve taken it.”

“He?” Fatso asked.

“I assume he meant J.T.,” Harvey said. 

“Adds up.” Fatso turned to look at Kat, still on the floor amongst the wreckage. “He an’ J.T. rarely had a good word between’m. He’s been glarin’ at that box since Kat first brought it out. Since she found the first stash, too. Tried ta’ take the opportunity.” He nodded towards the girl, string into the box on the floor. “Weren’t for her, the entire collection would’a ended up in the fire. Again.” Out of curiosity, Stinkie swooped down as well. 

The girl didn’t even seem to notice him drawing near, because she didn’t speak up when he pulled a photo from the mess, shaking the splinters from it. “All this bullshit temper-tantrumin’ over pict-” Stinkie squinted at it. “Hang on. Friggin’ lights keep flickerin’ and I can’t see-” He blinked, glancing around, “I thought the lights was all blown out?”

Fatso looked over towards his brother, then past him, towards the hearth where a light was pulsing. He squinted. “That… that ain’t electricity, Stinkie.” The ashes glowed white against the floor of the stone fireplace. 

Finally standing, Harvey balanced himself against the desk. “What _is_ that.”

“Not sure…” Whispered Stinkie. 

Fatso kept moving forward. Past the carpet. Past the chairs. 

Past Kat, who finally looked up when she felt the chill on her skin and could hear Fatso’s quiet, swift draw of air when he sifted through the ashes and drew out-

“Doc…” Stinkie said. 

“I see it,” said Harvey, numb. 

Between Fatso’s hands was a glowing ball. 

Kat, holding the picture in her hands, felt her world slipping farther and farther away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanfic would not have been possible without my good friend and incredible writer Invader_Sam, who reached out to me as I began writing this. She is a phenomenal writer, and I have had the absolutely best time. I am so honored to be working with her.


	15. The House and its Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ghost arrives to his Memory House, a guide doesn't fail to notice changes, and a girl finally realizes truths inside of an opened box.

He was lying down. 

It was the first thing he realized when the world around him had stopped spinning. 

He was lying down. 

His head was pounding, and when he tried to open his eyes it only made the spinning worse, so he shut them tighter. 

He dragged in a deep breath, listening to the sound rattle in his ears. 

Or… 

No. 

The sound wasn’t in his own head. It was around him. A soft rustling. 

Trees, he realized. Wind bristling through the branches. 

He flexed his hands around what he thought must have been the carpet on the library floor. 

Only… no.

Because carpet wasn’t cold.

And carpet wasn’t wet.

Stretch kept his eyes shut, trying to work out what had happened. 

They’d been in the library…

And he’d gone to do something.

Gone to _destroy_ something. 

He remembered suddenly; the box, the fight, the _girl_ , the fire-

His brother. 

He hadn’t thought about his brother, J.T., since that girl had brought him forth. Dragged him from the depths of memory. The eyes of that man, staring dark out through sepia, pulling feelings out of him he hadn’t felt in too many years. 

Feelings that he’d known. 

Avoided. 

He still remembered holding that picture, the fire behind him, wanting so badly for the _hurt_ and the _hate_ and the _loss_ to vanish. 

They never did. Not really. He could push them down each time, deeper and deeper. Replace them with disgust and sarcasm and slicing words. Which he did often. Because every time he looked-

Every time he _looked_ -

(The blue eyes.)

(The small voice.)

(The entire past following behind.)

-he felt. 

So he’d pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed. 

Until he broke. 

Until feelings weren’t avoidable. 

Until his past came back, screaming and kicking and tugging. 

Until he began remembering. 

Until he hated anew. Hated more. Hated _him_. 

His intention was to destroy. 

Kat had brought down the box from the attic, leaving it on the carpet of the library. _Casper’s Father_ watching him from across the room, mocking him. 

The hate had stayed with him, all the way up the stairs. Up into that office. And it burst forth the moment he’d realized something was missing. 

Harvey had pointed to the empty space on the wall. 

_He took it_ , repeated over and over. 

_He took it._

_He took it._

_He took it_. 

Stretch hadn’t cared what would happen next. What the consequences might have been. All he could hear in that moment had been the roaring in his ears, Kat’s cries far off, the feeling of wood under his fingers, and the heat of a fire behind him. 

He’d wanted to destroy. 

Just like his brother had taken. _Stolen_ what was most precious to him. 

He never got far. 

One moment, he was in the library, listening to the cries of his family, his doctor, the girl. 

And then he was flat on his back, with only the sounds of rustling trees around him.

His head was still spinning, but he forced his eyes open.

He blinked up at a blue, rainless sky.

“What...the fuck.” He blinked again up at the clouds. “What the _ever-loving_ fuck.”

The voice in his head was silent, but he could feel his other half stirring behind his eyes. 

A breeze rustled the bare trees above him. A biting cold was seeping into his back. There was snow under his fingers, numbing them. He turned a little to the left and saw the side of the house looming over him. 

Whipstaff. 

“M’outside…” He said it to the voice behind his eyes. 

The voice still said nothing. 

He blinked again, his vision finally starting to settle. Some of the nausea was leaving, and he grunted, moving to sit up. 

The cool metal of a buckle bit into his stomach. 

Stretch froze. 

His hands lifted ever so slightly from their place on the ground, bits of crystalline water clinging to them. His breaths came out short when he lifted them just so, and touched his chest. He met fabric. Something scratchy, like wool. Small, smooth buttons. The fold of a collar. 

“Oh-” he began, swallowing back panic as well as he could, finally lifting his hands up against the bright blue of a sunny day. 

The light did not pass through them. It filtered beneath the cracks of his very real, very solid fingers. 

This time, when panic seized him again, the heart beneath his chest beat. It thundered against his ribs, jolting when he sat up too quickly, hair brushing his forehead as he did. “No,” he said, voice catching. “No, no, no, no-”

He tried to float up, stumbling on legs that were still not sure how to hold him. He finally gave up, falling to his knees in the snow to look up, up, up at Whipstaff Manor before him. Whipstaff manor with newly washed windows, with young ivy clinging to the side, and with a small tree beside it, newly planted by a boy and his Uncle, still barely grown. 

Through the walls, he could just hear laughter. Figures flitted on the other side of the panes. 

“ _No_ ,” he breathed again. 

_Yes._ The voice inside his head finally found itself again, weary and biting. _Welcome to Your Walls._

* * *

Kat heard the sounds of the room like she was at the bottom of a swimming pool.

There was a dull thrum in her ears, muffling the world beyond. Sitting on the carpet, holding the picture in the dim light of the Vanished, she was drowning. 

Just beyond, the others were still talking. 

Her father’s voice; _holy shit_

Stinkie; _how the hell did he-_

Somewhere, farther off, Fatso; _this ain’t possible!_

And then, louder than the rest, was her own. 

_No._ It was all she could think, over and over. _No. No, no, no, no_. 

A mistake. This was a mistake. Just a _mistake_. 

There was a noise beyond, like shattering. Kat’s head snapped up, blinking out towards where her father was. In his hurry, he’d hit the fire pokers beside the hearth

He was crouching in front of the hearth. Before him, were a pair of glowing orbs.

On the right, a warm white, smaller, was Casper.

On the left, a cool blue, larger, was Stretch.

Kat swallowed. The picture in her hands shivered. 

* * *

“This is impossible!”

_I know._

“This can’t fuckin’ be happening.”

 _I_ **_know_ ** _._

It had taken Stretch a few minutes to even begin accepting the idea that he was _here_ , back in the place of no return. It would have taken longer, had the voice in his head stopped hurrying him. 

_We don’t have time to discuss this._

“Like hell we do. You planned this-”

_I didn’t._

“You fuckin’ did.” Stretch tried to stand again. He hadn’t had legs for a hundred years, and they wobbled beneath him. The tree Casper and Stinkie had planted wasn’t far off, and he made his way towards it, feeling like a man at sea. “I don’t know _why_ , but you dragged me here. What? I wasn’t figuring out the puzzle fast enough?”

 _You think I wanted to come back to this place?_ Stephen hissed. _S’only been my_ ** _prison_** _for a goddamn century. Why in god’s name would I_ ** _ever-_**

“So how-”

_I don’t know._

Stretch finally made it to the little tree, grabbing onto a low branch. It bent slightly under his weight. His hand didn’t phase through and the bark cut into his palm. “So… so we just got dropped here?”

_Looks like it._

Stretch blinked up at the house. Snow covered the tops of the spires, making it look like an art nouveau gingerbread house. “How?” he said again, not expecting much of an answer. 

Stephen sighed. _My best guess? This is your place. You_ _built the damn thing. Maybe_ _you got angry enough to… bridge something._

“Angry…” His mind was still cloudy, and he ran a hand across it, feeling hair between his fingers. He tugged. It hurt. “Angry-”

 _Yeah. You_ **_-we-_ ** _were about to toss that box into the fire._

“The box…?” The cloud was receding, just so. 

_The box,_ Stephen agreed. _J.T.’s box._

That’s right. 

“Shit.”

_Yeah._

“But we never did throw it in, did we.” He was remembering now, vaguely. There had been a lot of shouting and screaming, and Kat’s face, red with anger, looking back at him. Her own hands on the box, pulling away from the flames. 

Before the world had vanished away, she’d given an almighty tug. There’s been a crash. A shatter. But nothing more. 

“She fuckin’ saved it.”

 _Of course she did,_ Stephen said, weakly. _Did you expect her not to? Kid’s made it her life mission to wiggle her way into yours._

“Fuck.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “That stuff deserved to end up in the fire.”

_We don’t even remember what he did._

“He did something.”

_I know._

“He _took_ something.” 

The voice behind his eyes was beginning to tense again, like a snake in its coils. 

It was coming back, slowly. The library. The empty space on the wall. The filing cabinet, missing something crucial and hidden. Something taken. 

The realization of just who would have taken it away, ripping out the memories with it. Stretch wanted to remember. _Needed_ to remember. 

“That bastard.” He scrubbed his face, almost startled again by the feeling of skin. He let the hand drop, shaking it, moved his eyes back to the house, scrutinizing. “He took… he took- _Casper!_ ” 

In a second story window, the ghost of the boy was moving slowly past.

His feet were moving again, haltingly, towards the front steps.

 _No, damn it!_ Stephen grunted.

And instead of through the front door, the body he hadn’t had ten minutes ago was veering to the right, marching around to the back of the house.

“The hell’re ya doin’? He’s _right_ there! We could just-”

 **_No_ ** _._ The voice in his head growled. _We_ **_can’t_ ** _._

“Maybe _you_ can’t, but I got no qualms about-”

 _He has to_ **_choose_ ** _!_ Stephen said, plunking them down on the back porch steps. _You go storming in there now and what the fuck do you think he’s gonna do? Huh?_

“He has to listen to me,” he said, tugging at the body that wasn’t quite his again. He was held in place “I’m his Uncle. He’s gonna come back with me whether he likes it or-”

_I don’t think you’re gettin’ this!_ Stephen hissed again. _That boy up there? He’s still tryin’ to decide if hates ya’ enough to move on or hates ya’ just less enough ta’ stay. You go in there, guns blazin’? He’ll choose, right then and there. You ain’t ever gonna see him again._

Something cold gripped Stretch’s chest, and he fell quiet. 

_We gotta think this through. Gotta play it cool. Or this’ll be the last place you ever see him._ _  
_Stretch frowned, tried to get back up, but the body still wasn’t listening to him.

So he sat.

And he stewed.

The horizon in front of him lightened and darkened, as if someone had hit ‘fast forward’ on the world. He had a good idea who. Behind him, lights shone from the windows, and he could hear noise from the kitchen. He raised a hand, ran it through his hair, focussed on the feeling of it while the boiling rage cooled to a simmer.

“So what are we supposed to do then?” He watched the sun set over the water. Felt the sting of cold salt air on his face.

 _The way_ **_I_ ** _see it,_ Stephen said slowly, _However the hell you did it, we’re_ **_here_ ** _now. An’ there’s answers in here same as out there._ _You see what I’m sayin’?_

“No.”

 _That_ **_thing_ ** _._ _That he took? It’s here. Probably right where we thought we hid it. All we gotta do is keep clear’a the kid and go_ **_get_ ** _it._

Stretch straightened up. “Right. Yeah. Should be up in the office.”

 _‘Xactly,_ Stephen said, and Stretch felt his knees unlock so he could stand again.

“So we’ll sneak in through the house. Keep clear.” He tilted his head back up towards the side of the house. “The office is there,” he said, pointing up towards a third story window. “Go through a few walls up that way, and-”

 _You can’t go through walls,_ Stephen reminded him sourly. _One of the many pleasures here._

“Which means-”

 _Which means we’re gonna hafta do this the old fashioned way,_ said Stephen. _And you’re gonna hafta listen when I tell you shit. The memories keep playing, whether the kid’s watchin’ ‘em or not, so the house ain’t empty. Just keep your head down and follow my lead. Havin’ ta steer ain’t a joyride_

Stretch tugged at the hem of his suit coat, a habit he’d completely forgotten about until that moment. “Yeah, yeah.” Shoulders back, he moved to the backdoor with legs that felt less like jell-o. “I can handle mys-”

 _Not the kitchen!_ Stephen hissed, but it was too late.

Stretch pulled the door open to a room bursting at the seams with activity.

Young women in matching dark dresses and bright aprons swirled around the room, hustling platters of food out the far door. There was an older woman at the stove, basting some sort of enormous bird in a steaming pan. Beside her, another woman with fair hair was setting sliced bread in a basket. She handed the basket off to one of the younger girls and spotted him. 

“Thought you’d be upstairs, losing the fight over what does and doesn’t constitute appropriate New Year’s attire with your nephew.” She smirked at him and the heart he hadn’t had fifteen minutes ago leapt up his throat.

“Nell,” he choked out the name, wrenching it free from the far recesses of his mind where he hadn’t realized it had been lying in wait.

Her eyes on him, her features flickered.

Like static on an old TV.

She took a step closer, all while the rest of the staff moved around them, unphased. “This was _your_ idea after all. ‘Sending your brothers off in style’, you said. Don’t tell me I got up on a ladder and dusted the chandelier in the dining room only for that boy to come to dinner with mud on his pants and hot chocolate stains on his shirt.”

His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.

The images flickered again. 

“This was your idea after all,” she repeated, the memory skipping backwards, repeating. 

“Uh-” 

Her face flickered again, jolting. “This was your idea-”

 _For god’s sake,_ Stephen grumbled behind his eyes. _Your line is ‘Just needed a smoke break. Goin’ up for Round Two now.’ And then leave!_

“Right, yeah, I mean,” Stretch stammered, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he was sweating for the first time in a hundred years. “Just, uh, needed a smoke break. Goin’ up for Round Two now.”

Her face flickered again, jagged lines skewing her features for an instant and then she smiled. “Good.” 

He didn’t move.

Just continued to stare at her, fingers flexing at his sides, itching to reach out-

_Move!_

“Well, go on then.” Nell put a hand on his elbow, steering him towards the door. “You might want to change as well. What did you do? Fall off the porch into the snow?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he heard himself say, but it must have been Stephen, because his own brain was failing to send signals to his tongue. “King Klutz over here.” The spot where she had her hand was burning.

“Ridiculous man.” She rolled her eyes and pushed him out the door. “You’d both better be presentable for dinner.”

He staggered up the back stairs, got only as far as the first landing before he paused, clutching the railing while his heart thundered in his ears.

_Smooth. Very smooth. You’re a real natural at this._

“How was I supposed ta’ know the memory was gonna be there.” He ran a hand through his hair, plucking out a little tuft of wet moss from his fall. He glanced back at the kitchen. The memory was already fading away, and the space behind him was quiet. “The hell was that, anyway!”

_A memory._

“I know _that_. But the… flickering.” He waved a hand in front of his face. Like a fuckin’ broken record.”

_I ain't’ got time to explain._

“The hell ya don’t!” 

Stephen shifted around in the space behind his eyes. _Ya’ didn’t follow the memory right._

“What?” 

There was a grunt of frustration. _Later. I’ll explain later. But we’ve got places ta’ be. You wanna find those lost papers, don’t ya?_

He had a point. Ever the realist, Stretch couldn’t find much reason to argue with himself. He moved forward towards the stairs right by the kitchen, but stopped himself to turn back, glancing at the now empty doorway. 

_Stretch-_

“I…” Stretch swallowed. “I knew her.”

 _Yeah…_ Stephen said. The frustration couldn’t completely disguise the ache in his voice. _She’s caught up in this tragedy too._

Stretch’s hand clutched the railing to the steps, and he moved to sit down on them. His legs were shaking, and he struggled to catch his breath.

_Look, I’m sorry, but we ain’t got time for this._

“Just gimme a minute, will ya?”

 _I would if I could._ Stephen sighed. _Trust me, the woman deserves a helluva lot more than a minute, but we gotta keep movin’._

“But-”

_Now, Stretch. The office, remember? The kid?_

The kid.

The office.

The _Thing_.

He felt like he’d be bowled over by a truck, but he stood, trying to shake it off. From the still open kitchen door another memory began to rise, and within it he heard her voice. His throat constricted again. “Shit.”

 _One foot in front’a the other. C’mon,_ Stephen urged.

And that was how they climbed the stairs.

* * *

Casper was unaware of the new visitor to the world he and Amelia inhabited. 

There were more memories to see, and he watched them all by her side, drinking them in. There’d been a shift since he’d seen what had transpired at Christmas. A new reality taking hold. 

Whipstaff was his. 

By right, by name, by birth and blood. 

He was the heir of Whipstaff. 

“This is my house,” he said again after another memory had flitted past. His Uncle helping him don his coat, the door closing behind them. Opening again just moments later (hours having passed so quickly at Amelia’s hand) to watch them trekking slush through the house. They’d been to town. Casper’s blonde curls were pressed down by water. His clothes were covered in mud. Stephen was flushed from the cold, pushing the child towards the stairs. _I swear, Cas’, you’re turnin’ me gray, know that?_

“It is,” said Amelia. “All of this; the house, the memories, the people. They’re yours.”

Casper watched the memories change and shift again. 

Franklin and Samuel were still there, strolling through the foyer. The Christmas tree was up, but the decorations were in the process of being taken down. Maids scuttled around, carrying candlesticks and platters through to the rarely used dining room. 

Casper watched them, wide eyed. “What are they doing?”

“It’s New Years,” Amelia explained, evenly. “It was about to turn 1889. Your Uncle Stephen insisted on a celebration to rival Christmas.”

“Another party?”

“This time he decided on a more intimate dinner,” she laughed. “This house saw its share of both. It saw its share of joy. Laughter. Love. Before-”

She cut herself off quickly. 

Casper noticed, eyes flicking up towards the woman who was looking out towards the hoard of busy maids. “Before?” he asked, quietly. 

Amelia swallowed. 

“Amelia?” He floated a little higher. “Amelia. Before _what_?”

“It’s not time for that, yet.”

“But you’re saying-”

“It’s not time for it, Casper.”

He was surprised at the coolness of her voice, and he quickly drew his question back, nodding. She drew in a deep breath, rolling her shoulders. In front of them, Samuel and Franklin adjusted their ties in a mirror. “Don’t worry yourself about it. We’ve got to see this memory. And then- then we’ll talk about it. Alright?”

He swallowed, nodding. “Alright,” he said. 

Snow pelted the windows softly. There was more laughter. Music once more. Young Casper was at the top of the stairs again, finally wrangled into something other than muddy, slush soaked pants. From the look of him, though, Stephen hadn’t succeeded getting his hair combed. Franklin noticed. 

“You’re slippin’, Stephen!” Franklin called up the steps, catching the boy when he ran to him. 

“Aw, shaddup,” came the call from the steps. Stephen stalked over the second floor landing. “Casp- _er!_ Get the hell up here!”

“No!” Casper was scurrying down the steps. 

“The hell does that mean!”

“ _No_!”

“You’re losin’ your touch, Stevey.”

“Jesus…” Stephen was holding a hair brush in one hand. The ghost could just see it when the man’s hand fell to his hip. “Can one’a you grab him? Tie him down.”

Casper finally reached the bottom of the steps, and had made quick work of hiding just behind his Uncle Franklin’s broad form, pressing his face against the backs of his legs. “ _No_ ,” he said again, miserably. 

“Casper!”

“ _No!_ ”

“You want extra chores? Because that’s what you’re gonna be gettin’!” 

“No!” 

Franklin snorted, twisting at the waist to touch Casper’s wild hair. “What’s the matter, short stuff, huh?”

“It _hurts_ when he does it,” Casper muttered against Franklin’s legs.

“Yeah. He never had the softest of touches.”

“Can it.” Stephen rolled his eyes, taking the first few steps down. “If he stopped _wriggling_ for two fuckin’ seconds-”

“Take it easy on the old dog,” Franklin said, putting his drink down on a nearby table. “I can handle it. C’mon, Cas. Let’s get that hair taken care of, yeah? Birds are gonna start nesting there soon.”

“Maybe actually get that tie straight, too,” Samuel said into his glass. 

Glumly, the boy was resigned to his fate. 

“I had the same fights with Kat,” Amelia said, watching the youngest Uncle sit Casper on the steps, taking the hairbrush from the exasperated eldest. “James always had the lighter touch, but sometimes he had clients and I was all there was left. I swear, one day she hid under the bed for an hour. Set up her teddy bears as guards.” She laughed again, watching fondly. 

Casper smiled. “It sounds nice.”

“It was.” She sighed, “But we’ve got lots to see, and not as much time as I’d like. So we’d best get-”

Whatever she was about to say dropped away. Casper looked up to ask her what was wrong, but stopped himself. The air around them began to tighten. And, under her fearful gaze, the scene before them froze. 

The people, the sounds, the smells; they froze in time, flickering ever so slightly, like a television set. 

Casper looked back up at Amelia. Her face had gone rigid, and she looked out over the frozen scene with sharp eyes. 

“Amelia?”

She blinked out towards the scene. Her chin lifted, and her eyes narrowed. 

“ _Amelia?”_

“I don't-" She cut herself off quickly, not wanting to scare the ghost. It didn't matter, though. Her next words, unspoken, were still very much understood by the way she looked at the room before them. 

_Something's wrong._

“What?” He looked at the frozen people, trying to find what she was seeing. 

“I don’t…” She shook her head, breathing in deep. “It's nothing, dear. Everything's fine." 

It sounded like a lie. 

Casper swallowed. 

The world around them slowly began to move again. Amelia reached down and took his hand. “You’ve got a decision to make. We’re more than halfway done, now.”

“We are?”

“We are,” she said, nodding. “And there’s a lot to get through, and not much time. But we should watch something happy.” She squeezed his hand, eyes still fixed on the world around them, looking for whatever had made a notch in the world she’d taken them to. “Come along.”

Casper took one glance out into the room, trying to see what it was that had taken her by surprise. 

There was only laughter, his Uncles, the memory of himself. 

“Okay,” he said, slowly following behind. 

* * *

Stretch knew his way to the office. He was surprised how well he knew the way, hurrying through the halls as fast as his new legs could carry him. 

But it was hard. Especially when the house kept drawing him in other directions. 

It wasn’t something he noticed at first. Once he’d left the kitchen, entering the rest of the open, empty house, there seemed to be very little there to keep him from his goal. 

It was the subtlety that got him. 

A smell down one hall; like fresh, sweet grass and sea salt had him pausing just at the bottom of the first steps. 

There was laughter, far off. Light and twinkling. 

His own voice reflected at him, winding through the halls, calling out for a boy. Small footsteps just after, running up and down the floors. 

And there was _feeling_. 

All around him. 

He’d done his best in the years to push those farther and farther back. The little sparks and twinges that came up, stinging at his stomach and his throat and his chest and made him feel like he was one slip away from a fall. 

Now it was like the void was just below him, waiting for him to slip one last time. 

“Jesus…” he rubbed his chest. 

_Stay focused._ Stephen tugged him up another flight of steps. One foot after the other. That’s what he’d said. One foot after the other.

It was much harder than just that. 

_I know it’s hard,_ he hissed again. _But you need to stay focused._

“Yeah,” Stretch muttered, tearing his eyes away from shadows passing across the halls. A child’s voice. The sound of singing. “Right. Focused.”

He could almost feel Stephen roll his eyes. _Let’s go. We’re close enough. Last thing we need is Amelia catchin’ us standin’ around._

That was enough to get Stretch’s feet moving again, past the shadows and the sweet grass and the laughter, until he was standing once again in his office. “Really _hasn’t_ changed much, has it?” Stretch managed a weak facsimile of his usual ire as he stepped inside.

 _On the wall,_ Stephen said. _Look._

He looked.

In the place where the empty nail had been back home, there was a frame.

In the frame, there was a contract.

He drew close enough to read it, but didn’t touch, narrowed eyes flitting across it.

All while the roiling tempest of emotions he’d felt back home, staring at its empty nail, churned with renewed vigor inside. Everything he’d never wanted to feel again, wave upon wave of it crashing against his ribcage. 

He could feel it, crisp new paper between his fingers (even though his fists were tightly clenched at his sides).

Could smell pine and coffee.

Could hear a high-pitched whisper of **I love you lots and lots.**

Could feel warmth pressed against his side.

Stretch hissed, wincing, hands moving up to his chest. Something was itching just behind his ribs. It had been bothering him since he’d arrived, but it had begun to grow. Like a small cloud, sifting off, pluming through him.

It felt like… something? A familiar _something_.

No. Not something. 

Nothing. 

Like a small part of him was being hollowed away. Shifting to the side, like a boulder in a stream.

What the hell was happening to him… 

Eyes burning, he spun away from the wall, crossed to the desk and yanked open the bottom drawer.

_What’re you-_

“Can it,” he growled. The whiskey bottle _clunked_ against the top of the drawer as he pulled it out.

_Are you seriously-_

“S’my place. You said.” He yanked out the cork with his teeth.

_Yeah but-_

He put the bottle to his lips, let the familiar burn slip down his throat. “Okay. So I looked at the fuckin’ contract and, surprise-surprise, no heavenly choir singin’ the roof off the joint. What next?”

_There was something else. We knew that much. So we keep looking. Here, things should ‘spark’ more readily._

“‘Spark’. Right.” Instead of moving to the filing cabinet, Stretch settled down in the desk chair, took another swig of whiskey. He gazed out at the room. In the corner, at the little desk, there was a flicker, a muffled voice asking **how do you spell ‘incorporate’?**

He twisted again in the chair, trying to find the voice. A shadow flitted across the wall. 

Like a specter. A ghost. 

Heart pounding, he held tight to the bottle, whiskey shivering against the sides. “What the hell are you playin’ at?”

_This ain’t me._

“The hell it ain’t!”

There was another sound then, just outside the door. **Uncle Stephen! Uncle Stephen! It’s time for lunch-**

He pushed back, the chair hitting the wall behind the desk. “The _fuck_ is goin’ on.”

Stephen, from behind his eyes, scoffed. _You’ve been here ten minutes. Imagine this, endlessly, for a hundred years._

“Fuck off. That ain’t what I’m askin’.” There were more sounds outside in the halls. Laughter. A child’s shriek of delight. “Are _you_ doin’ this?”

_No._

“But before-”

_When you were fightin’ me like a rabid dog?_

“That was _you_ then.”

_Sort of, yeah. But this ain’t me now. S’just this place._

The bottle was shaking in his hands and he put it between his legs. “The hell’s that mean?”

_What you’re hearing, what you’re seeing- they’re echoes._

“Echoes-”

 _Little waves of memories left behind._ From behind the door there was more noise. A child calling out for his Uncle. An Uncle responding. _I existed here as a part of your mind. The bits of yourself that you stored away._ _It’s why you ain’t a ghost in here this time. Nobody brought ya. This time_ you _did it. So now we’re here in_ my _form._ _Which is why,_ he stressed, _you gotta be more careful walkin’ through. Last thing we need is you endin’ up stuck in a memory._

“I’d get stuck here?”

_Not sure._

“You’re not _sure_?”

 _The world works on its own rules. Only Amelia knows how to navigate in and out. So no. I ain’t sure. But I do know that if ya’ wind up inside a memory, then you’d need ta’ play that memory out. An’ I don’t know if you’ve got the know-how ta’ do that. The way ya’ stumbled around through the kitchens didn’t_ _exactly evoke a lotta confidence_ _._

Stretch swallowed. The feel of Nell’s hand on his elbow sent another sharp ache in his chest and he took another swig from the bottle. 

“So- what I’m hearin’?”

_Little bits of memories left behind. Ripples._

“S’poetic of you.”

 _Nothin’ else ta’ do in this place but wait and watch._ Stephen let out a long breath. _Listen. If we wanna go through with this plan, then we’ve gotta lay down some rules. Ya’ can’t just go bargin’ through. Last thing we need is Amelia-_

“I don’t care about Amelia.”

_You should. She came to me first, before she brought Casper through. Came up with the plan. Last thing ya’ want is ta’ get between that woman an’ her ideas. She’ll have ya’ out’a here before you get a chance to figure out why ya’ came._

It took a moment for Stretch to really hear what Stephen had said, and when the words finally processed, he was barely able to comprehend them. “Wait. You- _you_ gave her permission. Ta’ take Casper!”

 _Technically,_ **_we_ ** _did._

There was a righteous anger bubbling in his stomach. “So all’a this is because-”

 _All’a this,_ Stephen cut in, voice cold, _was because of you not knowin’ what ya’ had with that kid. You wanna split hairs? Fine. Then let’s split all’a yours first._

Stretch’s hand tightened around the bottle. The ridges cut into his hand. “I know what I did.”

 _About fuckin’ time._ There was little sincerity behind the voice. _Only took a hundred years an’ almost losin’ him._

“You don’t have ta’ bring that up.”

 _An’ you didn’t have to_ **_watch_** _._

Stretch took another swig of whiskey. Behind his eyes, he could feel Stephen drawing in a deep breath. Letting it out slow. _We can’t be fightin’. Not now. It ain’t gonna do Casper any good._

“Yeah.” Stretch took another swig. “So. What next, then?”

 _We find what we’re lookin’ for,_ said Stephen. _And then we get out. No stoppin’. No pausin’. I’ve been stuck in this place long enough._ Stretch could almost feel Stephen shiver. 

Another shadow flitted across the room, hanging off the chair. 

**Look! I drew stocks!**

**You’re a natural, bulbhead.**

Stretch put the bottle to his lips again. It burned going down. “Yeah,” he said, finally. “Not likin’ this place much, either.” 

At least it was something they could agree on.

* * *

Harvey sat on the floor beside Fatso. Above them both, Stinkie was pacing in a short, jerky circle, a piece of photo paper still clutched in one hand. “How the hell did he _do_ that?”

“Beats me,” Fatso said, frowning down at the pair. 

“I didn’t even know we _could_ do that!”

“Me neither.”

“ _Can_ we?”

“Still don’t got any answers for ya, Stink.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” the elder of the two muttered, still circling like a goldfish forgetting there are glass walls containing it. “So where the hell did he go!”

“I told ya-”

“Give me your best _guess_ then.”

Fatso swallowed, twisting his fingers together in front of his chest. “Best guess? If Casper ended up this way, an’ he wound up in that place…”

Stinkie breathed. “You don’t think-”

“It makes sense.”

“But-”

“He’s right.” Harvey stood slowly, pressing his palms into his thighs, wincing when his knees cracked. “I told you; I was just talking to your brother. Both versions of him. And we came to some… realizations.”

“Doc-”

“The place Casper’s being kept.” Harvey looked at both ghosts, watching him carefully. Behind them, his daughter’s eyes were trained on their little group. There was something in her hand, quivering. “It belongs to Stretch. Or - Stretch _made it_.”

Stinkie rose up a little higher. “What does that mean, _Stretch made it?”_

“That’s what it means. He- I don’t know _how_ . But he made it.” Harvey scrubbed his face. “You’ve known him a long time. Certainly a lot longer than I have. You know what he’s like. What he _does_. He’s been pushing down every single emotion and memory he’s ever had for years.”

“Decades,” Fatso agreed, nodding slowly. “So you’re sayin’-”

“I’m saying,” said Harvey, “that he knows more than we thought he did. More than _he_ thought he did. And whatever memories came up, he kept pushing them away. And having Casper around didn’t help, either.”

“Casper…” .

It was the first word that his daughter muttered. Her gaze drifted down to the slip of paper in her hand. 

James nodded, watching her with furrowed brows. “Yeah,” he said. “Casper.” He shook his head, regaining the train of thought that had veered away. “Casper was here when Stretch arrived. And you two came later, right?”

“Yeah.” Stinkie pointed to Fatso. “He was first. I was second.”

“So you saw the way he treated the kid when you got here. He probably influenced a lot of how you acted.”

Fatso’s jaw twitched. His arms crossed, shoulders rolling back. “Yeah. He did. I didn’t know why, but-”

“You didn’t know _why_. Never questioned it at all?”

“At first.” The larger of the two ghosts rolled his neck. The conversation was cloying, and he looked like he wanted to find any way out. Under their gaze, he stayed firm in his place. “I dunno. It was just somethin’ he did. Moment we got here. An’ we weren’t gonna question it. Sides…” His jaw twitched again. “I wasn’t angry, like Stretch was. But it still… it didn’t feel-”

“Didn’t feel wrong,” Stinkie finished for him. “Not until now.”

“And you didn’t think about that? At all?”

Fatso shook his head. “Didn’t think about it much, doc.”

Harvey turned on his heel, stalking back towards the fireplace, looking down at the orbs below. He turned again, facing the room. The orbs gave off a light that surrounded him like fire. “Stretch hated Casper. That’s what he told me. He hated him, but he didn’t know _why_ . It just felt right. And this wasn’t just an unknown dislike, like what you’re describing. From what Stretch said, this was true _hatred_. The type that eats you from the inside.”

“Over that kid?” It was almost like the revelation was news to Stinkie, who frowned at his equally confused younger brother. “I know he didn’t treat the kid right. None’a us did. But hatred?”

“Absolute _hatred_.” 

“That’s goin’ a little far.”

“It’s not.” Harvey pointed behind him at the larger of the two orbs. “But here’s the thing. Stretch didn’t know why he hated Casper, either. Absolutely _no clue_ . He had so few memories of his nephew. All he knew, when he first showed up, was that Casper _was_ his nephew, and that he absolutely despised him for _some reason_.”

“Jesus.” Fatso rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t even realize…”

“I don’t know what happened between them that could make him feel that way. But what I do know?” The doctor moved to the side, orbs in full view of the library again. “Every time he felt that hate, it was because he remembered something. And whenever that happened, he shoved it all back and away. And all of that? Those memories? That hatred?” He gestured around them, at the looming walls of Whipstaff. “It all had to go somewhere.”

Stinkie’s tail flicked from side to side, nervously. “So that place we went ta’. Those memories… They belonged ta’ _Stretch._ ”

Harvey nodded.

“Holy shit.” Fatso looked down at the orbs. “Holy- and he’s there again. _Now_.”

“He can’t be.” Stinkie jerked towards his brother. The paper in his hand fluttered. In the dim light, it gleamed. “Oh _shit_. He can’t be.”

“Why-”

“He’s gonna fuck this up.”

Harvey took a step closer. “Maybe he won’t.”

“You don’t fuckin’ get this, doc!” Stinkie shook his head. Harvey was surprised to see his eyes shimmering. “We weren’t supposed ta’ end up back there. That’s what Amelia said. Not ta’ mess with any’a this on that side. Because if we messed with it, there was a chance…” 

The words fell flat, and he struggled around them. 

Fatso’s eyes were gleaming, too. The youngest of the two was realizing, too. An unspoken reality surging over them. “He’ll choose to go. To the other side.” 

“Well.” Harvey adjusted his glasses. “We’re sort of past the ‘he can’t’ stage. Now we’ve just got to keep pushing forward on our end. Picking up the pieces, quite literally it seems.” He waved a hand out at the mess on the floor that used to be the box marked _Casper’s Father._

“Pick up the-” The drapes on the windows began to stir, softly. In Stinkie’s hand, the paper began to crinkle. “There ain’t no pieces to _pick up!”_

“Stinkie-”

“ _No!_ ” The ghost rose up, all around him things were rustling - the papers on the floor, the curtains, the hair on the therapist’s head. “We’re _fucked_ . Just like _always_ , we’re followin’ along behind, because god forbid somethin’ doesn’t go _his_ way!” The fist that held the crumpled paper jabbed at the fireplace where the orbs sat. “He’s takin’ all’a us down with him!”

“He didn’t mean to-”

“ _He_ _always fuckin’ means to!_ This is his signature move! Explode an’ drag us all down with the rubble! And now? _Now?”_

“Stinkie. _Please_.” 

But the ghost was beyond stopping. His hands quivered around the paper, the drapes around them spasming with the gusts that blew across the library walls. “We could’a been fine. Without knowin any of this! We could’a - we could’a just gone on the way we always were! Without _knowin’_ . But now that’s all we got. Because the fearless leader decided ta’ tear it all ta’ hell. No nephew. No brother. You… you an’... an _her?_ ” He twisted around to point at Kat, blinking up at him with an owlish, unseeing gaze, “ya’ fuckin’ ruined everything!”

“You’re lashing out, Stinkie." Harvey quickly moved in front of his daughter. 

“Wonderful observation! You get paid by the hour for that?” 

"Kat didn't do this to you. She didn't create these _issues._ " Harvey's voice was hard. "You're angry. You need to calm down. You need-" His eyes drifted off to the side, seeing something the ghost didn't. 

"You don't think I fuckin' _know that?_ "

“ _Stinkie?”_

“We could’a been fine! But ya’ went an’ wrote us into a fucking _tragedy-”_

“Stinkie!” Harvey had been ever so steadily moving forward against the wind, and finally got close enough to reach up and grab the ghost by the tail, jerking him down. The breath was taken from him for a moment, and with it, the wind stilled. Stinkie’s fists were shaking, teeth bared, and he went to pull away, wanting nothing more than to vanish through the floor until Harvey grabbed his arm instead and pointed. 

Off by the desk, Fatso floated alone. 

There was a picture from their box in his hands. 

It had gotten blown off the carpet in all the wind, and the ghost had plucked it from the air before it could get lost in the chaos. His face was sheen. He reached up with a free hand, wiping at his eyes with his knuckles. 

Beside Harvey, Stinkie went stiff. The elder of the two swallowed. “Fatso?”

Fatso didn’t answer. He put the picture down to the side, looking at the floor. The pictures were scattered on the carpet, and he reached down to pick up another. He didn’t bother wiping his face again. “Look how small he was.” His voice chipped like glass, he turned the picture around to show the pair by the hearth. They stared, unmoving. 

He barely noticed, letting out a wet laugh, turning the picture back around again, thumb grazing sepia. “Always told me he was my number one fan, you know that? Used ta’ call me before every show if he could. Sometimes even after. An’ whenever we visited? Jesus, the kid would tear the house apart to get to us. Remember that, Stinkie? Kid could’a replaced the sun with that smile.”

Stinkie’s shoulders drifted slowly down. 

“All’a this was just… collectin’ dust,” the youngest said. A tear splashed against the picture in his hand and he moved quickly to brush it away. “‘Cause we couldn’t be bothered to wonder about who we was before.” When he looked up, his gaze was firm beyond the tears. “This ain’t the fleshies’ fault. An’ we weren’t better off before.”

The elder floundered, looking like he _wanted_ to move closer but holding back. “I- I only meant that-”

“Hurts like hell now, yeah.” Fatso nodded. “An’ knowin’ Stretch, maybe he _will_ fuck it up and that’ll be it. But _we_ fucked up too. For a hundred years. This ain’t all on him.” He turned to look at the orbs. “Never had a problem tellin’ our ‘fearless leader’ where ta shove it back then. When’d that change? First time he _ever_ raised his voice to the kid and the two of us were on ‘im like flies. But now? Shoot the kid to the moon for a laugh. The same kid who hung on yer every word, ever when he didn’t know what the hell you were talkin’ about. Can you remember the last time you said somethin’ to the kid that _wasn’t_ barkin’ an order, or callin’ ‘im names?”

Stinkie’s eyes went to the floor.

“Yeah. Me neither.” Fatso’s wet eyes were dark. “So this ain’t all on Stretch. And that being said…” He looked back down at the photo in his hand. “...much as it’s killin’ me to think I’ll never get to hug that kid again, I’d rather spend the rest of eternity wishin’ I could, ‘stead of not rememberin’ who he was.”

Stinkie swallowed. 

“This hurts,” said Fatso, watching his brother with knowing, blue eyes. “Hurts more than anythin’. I might never get ta’ hug’m. Might never get to apologize. Or tell him how much I-. Might never get another chance to be his Uncle. But…” He looked down at the picture. “But I’d never give up the hurt. Not for nothin’. Because that means this never happened. An’ I’d never give that history up, Stinkie. Not for any tragedy. Not for all the hurt. I’d rather burn forever than forget how much I loved him.” 

Harvey opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out-

“Fuckin’ _shit!_ ” Stinkie pressed both fists into his eyes.

The therapist looked between them. 

He’d seen reality set in before.

There was a sort of shift that took place with almost all his patients. The moment they realized a Truth. They always went up the climb first. Trying to distract, deny, blame. Hope. But eventually, there wasn’t much space left for all that. Finally looking back, realizing just how far they rode up the hill before tipping forward over the bluffs into nothing. 

His patients were over that bluff. They’d climbed, and denied, and hoped. And now they were falling and facing their own Truth; that the world might be emptier by one small ghost. 

Fatso was carefully picking up another picture, wiping his face again. His jaw quivered. Just beyond, Stinkie floated with his back to the bookshelves, fists against his eyes. He was breathing in too fast, and every breath out came with a shudder. 

Harvey let out his own. 

There wasn’t much he could do beyond this. Not yet. This was grief. Mourning. And he needed to let them have it. 

“I’ll be here if you need to talk.” It was all he felt he could say. 

Fatso didn’t respond, staring down at the picture in his hands. Stinkie, still against the wall, could only nod with his fists still plunged hard, hiding his eyes. Harvey pretended not to see the tracks down his face.

He moved quietly away, turning to the one figure in the room who wasn’t attending a mental funeral. “Kat, honey?” 

She didn’t respond. 

“Kat? Maybe we should give the boys some space for a few minutes, okay?”

Still, nothing.

“We can finish looking through the box in a few. But I think right now-”

But his daughter didn’t move. Planted on the floor, knees turning red where the carpet was rubbing against them, she kneeled above the box, holding something tight in her hands. He frowned, moving towards her. 

“Sweetheart?”

It was too dark to see what she was seeing. His eyes could barely handle it behind glasses. “Kat-”

“No…”

Harvey blinked. He lowered himself down to mutter about how _this isn’t really the time_ , until he realized;

She hadn’t said it to him. 

He was wary that she’d even heard him. 

“Kat?”

“ _No_ ,” she said again. “No, no, no, no…” The words were barely audible, lips moving quickly. In the dim light of the orbs, her pupils looked blown. He lightly put a hand on her shoulder and she started. “He’s not _here._ ”

“I know, honey, we were just talking about where he must’ve gone-”

“No! No, _Dad!_ ” She looked up at him at last, her hands still shaking. “His dad’s _not here!_ ”

“Bucket, what’re you-”

“Look!” She thrust her hands at him.

He squinted down at the picture she was shoving in his face. He saw shadowy figures in the dark of the room.“I can’t see-”

“It’s not- it’s not _him_ , Dad!” She was breathing too quickly, and Harvey kneeled down to press a hand against her shoulder, about to tell her to take a breath, but she knocked his hand away. “You don’t get it!”

“Honey-”

“This is _his box_ . This is- I _promised_.”

“Honey, this isn’t the _time_. We really should leave for-”

“You don’t get it! You don’t- I promised!” Her voice was steadily rising, pitching in her panic. “I have to- I- _they made a mistake._ Casper’s dad- his stuff isn’t- it’s not-”

From across the room, Stinkie snarled against his hands. He dropped them. Red eyes glared across the room. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me.”

Harvey turned on his knees, holding up a hand. “Stinkie-”

“Is she fuckin’ _kiddin’ me?”_

“Stinkie. Listen. You’re upset. Take a breath. Kat and I are going to-”

But Stinkie was beyond consoling. He moved across the room quicker than Harvey had ever seen him fly, cutting through the air until he floated just by the two orbs in the hearth. “She’s out here, tryin’ ta’ chase down people who don’t exist no more-”

“She’s grieving, too.” Harvey stood, standing in front of his daughter. “We’ve all got our own way-”

“Oh, _she’s_ grieving?”

“She lost her best friend-”

“An’ I lost my nephew!” 

“We don’t know that yet!”

“S’already happened!” His arms flailed out, the picture in one fist crinkling between his fingers. “If Stretch is with him, that’s it. That’s _the end._ We made our own beds. But I can’t fuckin’ spend another second in the detective act. All she’s done since she started diggin’-”

“Don’t start with her, Stinkie!”

“Why can’t I!”

Harvey shot back just as fiercely, their voices getting louder and louder. Behind her father, Kat barely noticed. She couldn’t hear much over her own pounding heartbeat, raging in her ears. 

“Not here…” she said again. 

They didn’t listen to her. She picked up another picture, tilting it just so. In the light of the orbs beyond them, the faces fluttered into view. 

Kat’s breath caught again. 

“He’s not here…”

“You see what I fuckin’ mean?” Stinkie growled, gesturing at the girl. He dipped lower, past Harvey, until he was nearly face to face with the child. “You’re wastin’ all our times.”

Kat blinked up at him. 

“All you’re doin’,” he continued, hissing through his teeth, “is combing through _junk._ The pictures didn’t do nothin’. Casper is still-” His face dropped for a moment before collecting itself once more, hiding beneath the rage. “We unloaded your last precious box. An’ guess what. Casper still ain’t here. It doesn’t _matter,_ Kat. None’a this fuckin’ matters.”

“But…”

“But nothin’!”

Behind him, Harvey could only watch the ghost. Watched him hurt and mourn, glaring holes into the spilled clutter in front of the young girl. 

“Whatever you find here- it ain’t gonna change _nothin’._ Casper ain’t gonna come back to see it. He _chose_ . He chose ta’- ta’ move on. He chose ta’ never see us again.” His voice broke at the end, cracking around the heavy syllables. “An ya’ know what? I don’t blame him. Not for one second do I blame the kid. But it still _hurts._ Do ya’ get that, Kat? It _hurts._ An’ I… I don’t know how much more hurt I can take right now.”

The anger was fading, and Harvey’s shoulders softened. 

Stinkie lowered himself down, closer to the floor, looking up at the girl's face. It was hidden beneath her hair, face still facing the picture in her hands. 

“ _Please,_ Kat. We’ll… play detective with ya’ another day. We’ll figure out more memories. I- _we_ …” he turned to Fatso, who was watching with his own picture pressed to his chest. “We want more memories. But not yet. Not now. So… so _please._ Whatever you’ve got… save it. We can look at Casper an’ J.T. later. Tell ya’ all about Casper’s dad an’ everythin’. I promise. But please-”

“He’s not here.”

It was as if his pleas had gone unheard. 

Kat’s face rose to meet the disparaged ghost.

He breathed out, a heavy blow of air, head dropping. “Kat…”

“Stinkie.” Her voice drew his eyes up. She sounded odd. Sad. 

Desperate. 

“Stinkie,” she said again, gaze flicking between the ghosts and her father, her own voice quivering. Slowly, she lifted the picture in her hand. “He’s _not here.”_

“Casper’s-”

“Not Casper.” Her throat sounded tight. “J.T. He’s not… he’s not _here_.”

“Like as a ghost-”

“No!” Her open palms floated over the spilled box. “ _He’s not here,_ Stinkie.” 

“He is.”

“He’s _not.”_

“Jesus, Kat…” Stinkie sounded more exhausted than anything, glaring down at the pictures, barely visible in the dark of the room. “Drop the Sherlock act for two fuckin’ seconds.” He scrubbed his face with his free hand before reaching out to carefully touch her hand. 

From his place behind, Harvey blinked. 

There was an air about the ghost. Beyond the grief, he could see a former self pressing its face against the panes. Fatso had told Harvey that his middle brother had been a teacher. 

Harvey was beginning to believe him. 

“I… get it. I do.” Stinkie dipped a little lower, squeezing Kat’s closed fist. “We’re all gonna miss him. An’ you were a real champ here. I’ll thank ya’ for that later. Kid kept his head above water because you were here with’m. But Kat… this ain’t gonna do him any good where he is. So why don’t we just put this to the side. We’ll come back to it tomorrow-”

“But-”

“ _Kat.”_

The girls head finally rose, hair sweeping behind her in a tangled curtain. She gaped at him, trying to find the words. Her eyes, flickering between him and her father and the pictures, finally landed on Stinkie’s closed hand, and her own fingers shot out like a snake, snatching his fist in her own. 

“Kat!”

“Look!”

She unwound his fingers, grabbing the picture from between them. It was crinkled and the ink had webbed out in the creases, but the faces were still there. The faces, illuminated in the glow behind them. The face that was _wrong_ and didn’t belong. The face that had held her beneath its cool eyes. The face that she twisted around to show Stinkie now. 

“Who is this?”

“Kat. C’mon.”

“ _Who_ ,” she snarled, refusing to ease up, “is _this?”_

Stinkie looked like he wanted to vanish through the floor, but he relented just enough to lean forward, glowering at the picture. “Casper an’… J.T.”

“You’re not looking!”

“I am! S’Casper! Right there!” He stabbed the boy with his finger. “Kid just turned… I dunno? Six in that?”

“And who’s next to him!”

His voice was rising just as quick as hers. “Let up, Kat-”

“ _Tell me!”_

“I already did!” 

“Say it again!”

“That’s Casper!” he bellowed, “an’ next ta’ him is-”

And he stopped. 

And he stared. 

“Holy shit,” he breathed. 

* * *

After a long search in the office, it became clear that whatever they were looking for, wasn’t there. Stretch slammed one of the drawers shut in the filing cabinet. “Of fuckin’ course. I get pulled into a fuckin’ _upside down world_ , an’ it still can’t get it’s shit together enough to be organized.”

_Check again._

“I’ve checked it twice. Three times. Whatever we were lookin’ for, it ain’t there.” He ripped open the top drawer they’d shown to James back in the world they’d left behind, pointing inside. The box was gone. There was fresh anger searing behind his eyes again. The empty hole inside him continued to widen. Dark spaces clung like shadows, mocking him. 

The alcohol burning in his stomach didn’t help much. Back to the filing cabinets, he slid down, letting his head fall back against the metal. Gravity took him easily. He despised the feeling. 

“The bastard must’ve taken it already.” He lifted the bottle up, focusing on his hands instead. His real hands. His fleshy hands. He flexed them, just so. The knuckles whitened. “S’what he was good at. Takin’.” The whiskey was nearly gone. 

_He’d say it was ‘cause nothin’ was ever given to ‘im, like it was to us._

“Not like I ever _asked_ for-”

_We both know that didn’t mean shit._

“Even when we were kids, he hated me.”

_That never changed. Reasons got more complicated, that’s all._

Stretch frowned. 

The anger was bubbling and he held the bottle too tight. It cut into his flesh, and he hissed. 

“S’almost like he got what he wanted. Man wanted everything I had. Guess he got it.” 

The voice in his head was quiet. 

“Can’t even find what I’m lookin’ for in my own fuckin’ memories. Apparently stole it before I could get it back. Wonder if he planned it this way.” 

Still, silence. 

“I didn’t even think that was fuckin’ possible”

Silence.

Stretch snarled. “What? So _silent_ all of a sudden? Couldn’t shut you up before-”

_What year is it?_

“The fuck should I know!”

_Check our ledgers, dumbass._

Stretch stumbled to his feet, still getting the hang of them. He remembered where his ledgers were, stuck neatly in the top drawer he had checked just minutes before. The careful, sleek handwriting stared back at him. He scanned the top with his finger, searching through the cacophony of letters and numbers. “Here,” he said, tapping his fingertips against the top right of the page. “1888. Last day, too. About to be 1889…” he flipped the page, “tomorrow.” He blinked. “Shit. S’New Years Eve.”

 _It didn’t happen_. 

“What?”

_Whatever we signed! It didn’t happen yet!_

Stretch put the bottle down on the desk. “You’re tellin’ me I got us here too early?”

 _Amelia an’ Casper didn’ get to those memories yet,_ Stephen explained, voice clipped with an anxiety that was broiling in Stretch’s own, very real, chest. _An’ I don’t think it happens for at least another year. Maybe two-_

“How do you _know_?”

_I just do!_

“That ain’t good enough.”

Stephen swallowed. _I’ve been in this place for a hundred years or so. Watched these memories over and over. More times than ya’ know. Easier than watchin’ the way you treated_ **_my_ ** _kid._

“ _Our nephew_.”

He was met with silence. 

Stretch curled his free hand. The nails dug into his palm. 

_I know the rhythm of this place. It always goes in order, unless ya’ know how ta’ ask it not to. An’ I ain’t got that kind’a power here. Not the way Amelia does. An’ whatever we signed, whatever papers we hid away- we ain’t gonna be even lookin’ at them for a few more years. Kid’s too small. The thing we got with’m- it’s too new!_

“So you’re sayin’ we’ve gotta _wait!”_ Outside the room, he could hear another memory swell and fall, like a wave hitting sand. He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t _bear_ this. Stretch looked around the office. A memory from downstairs was starting, louder than the little echoes and ripples he’d encountered. Behind his eyes, Stephen cursed. 

_No. I’m sayin’ we gotta go._

Stretch blinked. “The hell we are.”

_I don’t know how many memories are gonna be here. But we can’t take a chance. We gotta get out. Now_

“But we didn’t find-”

_We can’t take the chance. We gotta find a way out._

He set the bottle down onto the desk harder than he meant to. It _thunked_ hard onto the ancient oak. “No fuckin’ way am I leavin’ here empty handed.”

He didn’t even want to imagine it. After trying to destroy the final memories of Casper’s father, his brothers were bound to be on a tirade, with Kat and Harvey just behind them. There was no telling what would happen if he came back now. It would be a miracle and a half if they didn’t find a reason to kick him out then and there. He was dithering with chances, and from the way Stinkie and Fatso had started looking at him, they were done following their ‘fearless leader’. 

They were splitting away from him. 

If he went back empty handed, there was a chance of losing everyone. 

New anxiety began to surge in him, and he buckled down. 

“We gotta stay,” he said. 

_Stretch_ . _Listen ta’ me. These memories…_ Stephen’s voice tightened. _It’s easy ta’ get caught up in’m. An’ they’re strict. They don’t change._

“So?”

_So the memories ain’t gonna bend ta’ fit whatever blunderin’ you’re plannin’ on doin’ around here. They’re set. They ain’t gonna change or shift._

“The hell does that have ta’ do with anythin’!”

 _It has to do,_ Stephen hissed, _with the woman who’s currently waltzing_ **_our nephew_ ** _through the halls._

Oh. 

Amelia. 

He’d almost forgotten about her. 

_Yeah, asshole._ **_Amelia_ ** _. She’s the one in charge here. The official tour guide of our fine an’ fancy history. Which means if she wants ta’ boot ya’-_

“These are my fuckin’ walls. That kid down there is _my nephew_ . These memories are _my memories_. I got every fuckin’ right ta’ be here.”

_She won’t see it that way. An’ last time I checked, her opinions of you weren’t all that… savory._

That was true enough. The last time he’d seen her, just hours before, he was under the impression that the woman didn’t really like him. Which was fine. He didn’t much like her. 

Stephen scoffed. _That’s putin’ it mildly. An’ if she finds out you’re here?_

“She won’t.”

_After that scene in the kitchen, I ain’t so sure about that._

“Kitchen-”

 _Don’t tell me you’re forgettin’ that disaster already_.

Stretch opened his mouth. Closed it. 

He felt Stephen roll his eyes. _I saved your ass, ‘member?_ _Had to feed ya your lines like one’a Franklin’s understudies._

Yes.

The kitchen. 

The flashing. 

The broken record. 

The memory of the woman - _Nell’s_ \- face, flitting in and out. 

_Like I said. You cemented these memories pretty well. It’s your life. It ain’t like any of ‘em are gonna shift or change. It’s the same as one’a them new-camera things. The one that captures… motion._

“Video camera?”

_Don’t care. Sammy’s thing, not mine._

“You’ve been watchin’ from my head!”

_Think we ever cared about any of that new shit?_

Which was true enough. Even looking around the office now, Stretch felt some sort of deep longing for everything hidden in the drawers. All of the classic, silver tipped pens. The ledgers. The inkwells. 

_Focus. S’how the memories work around here. They’re projected. An’ ya’ can’t change ‘em. An’ usually that wouldn’t be a problem. It isn’t for Casper or Amelia. But for you?_

“For me?”

_Yeah. Because you’re part me now. An me? I’m just a memory. This body? A memory, too._

Stretch looked down at his hands. 

His human hands. 

He flexed the fingers. The responded, knuckles bending. 

Everything felt real enough. 

_Might feel real, but it ain’t. S’just echoes of this place. Same as the shadows. Same as the noises. You’re made up of remnants. The little bits of memory you threw in here an’ locked away. You’re not just a visitor here, Stretch. You’re a ghost housed in fuckin’ memory. Just like the rest of this house._

Stretch flexed his fingers again, quickling moving them down to run his palms against his thighs. He was beginning to feel light headed, and leaned back until he was pressed into the filing cabinets. 

He reached for the bottle on the desk. There wasn’t much left, but he took a swig anyway. “So,” he said, once he’d swallowed and his throat was burning again (a better feeling, he figured, than the dregs of anxiety beginning to bud in his chest). “What does that mean for me, exactly?”

 _It means,_ Stephen pressed, _that the memories around here ain’t gonna pass around you like they do for them. They’re gonna expect you ta’ be a part of them if ya’ get too close. So if ya’ walk into one-?_

“I’m gonna be a part of it.” His throat was burning again, but not from the alcohol. He took another swig. 

_An’ if ya’ get one step wrong, like ya’ did in the kitchen, then the same thing’s gonna happen. It’ll freeze up. It’ll play again. Until you get your part right,_ _it’ll keep givin’ ya the same line._ _We got lucky in the kitchen. No one was around. But if ya’ happen ta’ find yourself in one’a them an’ Amelia finds ya?_

And Stretch knew. 

He knew exactly what would happen. 

“It’ll be the end of the line.”

_Bingo._

“She’ll catch us.” 

He could already see the way she’d look at him. 

Kat’s fury had often puzzled him. He’d never been sure where she’d gotten it from, because no way in Hell had it come from Harvey. But after seeing Amelia, knowing what she’d do to him if she knew he was here…

Another rush of anxiety flew over him, and he took another long swing of the whiskey. 

_You won’t be able to handle it._

“Which?” he rasped. “The dame or the memories?” 

_Either. Ya’ can’t remember how the memories went, an’ I don’t even want ta’ know what Amelia will do to ya._

“Fuck.” Stretch looked down at the bottle in his hand, giving it a swirl. There wasn’t much left. He put it down onto the desk. 

This was a mess. 

An absolute shit show. 

He stared down at the desk again. At the empty desk, void of the answers. At least for a few more years worth of memories. 

It would be safer to go back. Before he got found out. 

Except…

From the hallway, there was the sound of another echo. 

A shadow. 

Laughter.

He shook his head, pushing off the filing cabinets. 

“I gotta stay.”

_Stretch-_

“I gotta find what we’re missin’. If we gotta get through a few years of memories - then fine. We’ll… hide. Avoid’m. But we stay until we get what we’re here for to fill in these fuckin’ gaps.

Stephen folded. There wasn’t much of an option otherwise. _Fine_ , he growled. _But you can’t go messin’ around. You wanna stay? Have it your way. But it’s New Year’s Eve. Gonna be fuckin’ Hell ta’ avoid some of these memories. Not that it’ll be any easier when that dies down. Still. if Amelia finds you-_

“She won’t. An if she does… I can handle the broad.”

_You say that now-_

“I’ll keep sayin’ it.” He bent backwards, wincing when his back cracked. “Jesus, forgot how this old body felt.”

 _Don’t get why you kept these old bones in your imaginary fuckin’ house_. 

“Not like I meant to create it in the first place.”

Stephen snorted. _One day, when I’m gone, and you’re us again, I’m gonna make sure ta leave you with all the back pain._

“Fuck you, too.” 

Stretch stretched out his aching knees and walked quietly out the door. 

* * *

The memories continued on around them. 

Casper finally arrived again downstairs with his hair brushed, Stephen following behind looking more than a little put out, Franklin boasting about the whole affair like a war story, strutting about like a peacock while Samuel rolled his eyes and refilled glasses. 

“They look so happy.” The ghost watched his human self cling to Franklin’s hand, dragging him towards the little pile of unwrapped presents still left out since Christmas (albeit stacked _neatly_ ). 

“Mmmm” hummed Amelia. “They do, don’t they.” She reached down, ruffling Casper’s now-bald head. “They’re celebrating.”

“The new year?”

“And what comes with it.” 

He looked up at her, and she smiled, moving forward in the room, plucking a glass from the drinks table. She took a sip of whiskey, swirling the glass. “Your Uncle Stephen was staying. He’d signed a contract you’d made, but he’d already decided. He was staying.”

“For me?”

“For you.” She took another slow drink. 

Casper looked back at the scene. His hands drew up to his chest. There was a warm spot blooming just beneath his fingers. 

“And he was happy to stay,” she added, lifting the glass towards Stephen. The man stood back from the scene, watching it all happen. His face was soft, eyes on the child. “These were the last few days that your other Uncles would be there, but they were leaving happier than they had before. They knew that he was staying. And not just temporarily. Not just for a few weeks, or months. They knew their brother. He was all in when he’d decided something. And he’d decided.”

It almost felt unreal to Casper. He shook his head. “He never looks at me like that. Back home.”

“He isn’t the same. None of them are.” 

“Yea…”

Casper looked away when the child in the middle of the floor laughed hard enough to fall over as Franklin pretended to slip on one of the model trains. 

“Hey!” Stephen dropped too hard into his favorite wingback chair. “Try not ta’ break my floors!”

“Aw, can it! I’m _acting_ here!”

“Could ya’ act a little _quieter?”_

“It’s New years, Stevey, lighten up!”

“Yeah!” Casper giggled from the floor. “Lighten up!”

Stephen gave him a look. “You lookin’ for chores, bulbhead?” 

Casper quickly pretended to zip his mouth. 

“S’what I thought.”

“Aw, lay off the kid.” Samuel sat down in the chair beside Stephen, passing him a glass too-full of whiskey, taking a generous gulp of his own. “He’s _excited.”_

Casper sat up, nodding. His lips were pulled in. 

Stephen gave him a look, narrowing his eyes. He rolled them after a moment, fluttering his free fingers. “Fine. Unzipper.”

Casper drew his finger across his mouth the opposite way, giving an exaggerated _gasp._

“But any _backtalk-_ ”

“None!”

“Uh huh.”

“None at all!” Casper promised, sweetly. “I don’t want you to go grayer, Uncle Stephen!”

Franklin barked a laugh, drowning out Samuel’s snorting. 

Stephen’s glare hardened. 

“You’d get a whole week of helping Ms. Danvers for that one,” Amelia whispered.

Casper smiled before he could stop himself. “I think it was worth it.”

She laughed, finishing off her drink. “Oh, it definitely was.” 

* * *

Ms. Danvers came in a little while after, dinner bell in hand. 

Stephen had been in the midst of slouching back, unlit cigar clenched between his teeth, and nearly knocked his drinking glass off the arm of his chair, scrambling to stand up when she entered the room. 

“Ms. Danvers.” 

She nodded, curtly. “Dinner will be ready in a half hour, gentlemen.” 

Franklin was busy hanging Casper upside down by his ankles. The boy waved to Ms. Danvers, red faced. “Thank you, Ms. Danvers!”

“You are _very_ welcome, Mr. McFadden.”

“Mister! So _formal!”_ Franklin gave the kid a little swing that had Stephen looking away from the woman. “Look at that, Cas’! You’re fancy!”

“So fancy, Uncle Franklin!”

Stephen moved towards Nell, but paused halfway, looking back at his brother. “Try not ta’ drop him, okay? I’d actually like his head in one piece.”

“Aw, don’t worry, Stevey,” Franklin said, two seconds before nearly dropping Casper, catching him last minute. 

Casper screeched with laughter. “Again, again!”

Franklin smiled sheepishly. Stephen rolled his eyes, but gestured Nell out quickly. Amelia watched them go, the door closing softly. 

She cocked her head, giving Casper’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m going to follow them,” she whispered. “Do you want to stay here?”

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the scene. 

Amelia let him stay, drifting through the closed doors. 

* * *

“Are you seriously asking me-”

“Why not?”

“Why _no-_ well, where do I begin?”

“Nell…” Stephen was leaning on the banister, standing at the foot of the far staircase, both arms folded over the turned wood. The housekeeper was pacing in front of him. “You’ve done it before. With just Casper an’ me.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Well. It’s just _us_ , for starters. And it’s never _planned_ , there just tends to be too much food prepared and you know how I feel about wasting food-”

“Everyone in the state knows how you feel about-”

“Hush.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Sitting down in the kitchen on the odd occasion with you and the boy is _not_ the same as taking a seat at _that_ table in there.”

“You really think Sammy’s gonna say somethin’? Or Franklin?”

“Of course not.”

“So what’s the problem.”

“It’s just... _not_ done,” she said definitively, as if that settled the matter. She paused in her pacing, fisting her apron in both hands. “It’s _not_.”

He rolled his eyes. “Could fill a book with how little I care about what is an’ isn’t done, Nell. But fine. It makes ya uncomfortable? I’ll drop it.”

“Thank you.”

“But-”

“Oh for heaven’s sake-”

“-what about later? You an’ me, havin’ a toast after the kid and the bozos are in bed? Or is that ‘not done’?” he asked, pointing his crooked smile in her direction.

She blew out a breath, smoothing her apron down. “I swear, one kiss and you get it in your fool head that we-”

“Two.”

She blinked.

“After the, uh,” his grin faltered and he cleared his throat, “after the poem.” He straightened up, tugged at the hem of his jacket. “S’two in a week. So maybe it’s not just all in my ‘fool head’, hm?”

Her cheeks flushed and her gaze dropped down. “One could hardly call _that_ poetry.”

He shrugged. “So I’m a little rusty.”

She raised her eyes to him, the corners of her mouth ticking upwards. “ _Not_ the word I’d use.”

“Still got a kiss out of it, though.” He was leaning in closer, smile shy, their noses inches apart. “Not too rusty on that front, was I? S’been a while.”

The color in her cheeks deepened. “Finally something we have in common.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “You pullin’ my leg?”

“Well,” she began, and through the blush there was warmth in her eyes, her smile. “Exactly what sort of girl do you take me for, Mr. McFadden?”

He chuckled, low and warm, as he grazed her nose with his. “The sort of girl I wanna be kissin’ at midnight, Ms. Danvers.”

She snorted out a laugh, laying a hand on his chest to push him gently back. “When did you get so suave, hmm?”

“Just honest,” he murmured, ears red.

The hand on his chest rose up to pat his cheek. “There’s the Stephen I remember,” she said softly. “If _that_ Stephen wanted to bring port to the kitchens at the end of the evening, well…” she paused, choosing her words carefully, “that would be agreeable.”

His crooked smile returned. “I’ll be there. Can’t promise port though, Sammy goes through that stuff like water.”

“Why don’t you go hide a bottle then.”

Above them, there was a creak of a floorboard. 

They both froze, as if someone had pushed ‘pause’ on the scene.

Amelia’s eyes widened, and she glanced down at her right hand. She gave her fingers a flick towards the scene. 

Nothing happened. Their faces flickered, like a television with poor reception.

Amelia flicked her fingers again. Still, nothing. 

There was another creak. And then, as if nothing had ever been wrong;

“Why don’t you go hide a bottle then,” Nell repeated, the scene starting up just where it had left off.

“Yes ma’am.” Stephen gave a salute as he straightened up to his full height.

Nell nodded in approval. “I’ll leave you to it then.” Her hand ran down his arm on its way back to her side, then she moved to return to the kitchens, and the memory faded away.

Amelia raised her hand, watching her fingers flex in and out of a fist. She was still staring down at it when Casper drifted out of the door, coming up behind her. “They finished there. You should’a seen it, Amelia! My Uncle Franklin tossed me up _so high!_ Nearly dropped me, too. It was so funny, and-” He stopped when he noticed her face, still fixed on the now empty spot in front of them. “Amelia?”

She kept staring. 

“ _Amelia?”_

That finally got her attention, and she looked towards him. She blinked, trying her best to smile. He saw through it. 

“What was that, dear?” 

“Oh- it was just… I was talking about…” He shook his head. “Is everything okay?”

“Absolutely.”

“Are you sure?” 

He watched her eyes flicker towards the empty place, and his did, too. There was still nothing. 

His throat tightened. “Amelia?”

“Everything’s fine, Casper.” She took his hand before she had to answer any more questions. “Come on. We can get to the dining room before the memories arrive.”

“They’re actually using the dining room?”

“Oh, they are. Better use than they had now. I think you’re Uncle Stephen wanted a _proper_ goodbye for his brothers.”

Casper snorted. “Never heard _proper_ and my Uncle’s in the same sentence before.”

“And you won’t hear it again.” She gave his hand a tug. “Come on. Before the memories arrive. I’d like to get through the rest of them in good time. It would be a shame to miss some to make up for wasted minutes.”

He agreed with a nod, following along, his hand in hers. 

But he did look back again. Just once. Looked at the space behind them, where they’d left. 

* * *

Casper had never seen the dining room in use. It was another one of the spaces that rarely made it into his cleaning rotation, so imagining it now he could picture dust, cobwebs, holes in the chairs where moths or mice had chewed through the velvet upholstery. 

“This room didn’t get much use in this time, either,” Amelia said, taking a seat at the far end of the long table, away from where four places had been set. “It was too big for just the two of you. Too much work to make the staff keep it dust free everyday. And it was their _father’s_ table.”

Casper floated down into the chair next to hers, eyes on the crisp, cream-colored tablecloth. “Didn’t sound like they liked him very much,” he said softly. “From what they said the other night.”

“Their own youth had its share of tragedies as well,” she admitted. With a flick of her wrist, one of the wine glasses at the other end of the table slid down to her. “But, much like the office upstairs…” She trailed off, eyes flitting up to the ceiling as the space between her eyebrows crinkled. Just as quickly, she brought her attention back to the table, completing her thought. “...your Uncle Stephen was determined to reclaim it while he was here.”

“What do you mean ‘while he was here’?” Casper looked up at her. “So he _does_ leave-”

“We’ll get to that soon enough.” She took a sip of the wine. “For now, let’s just let them ring in the new year.”

Around them, the staff was bringing in plates of food covered with silver cloches. A maid with an open carafe refilled their glasses. Ms. Danvers swept up behind Casper with an extra napkin, tucking it into the collar of her shirt. 

“Hey…”

“Just a precaution,” she told him, brushing his cheek with a forefinger.

“An’ a _necessary_ one,” Stephen said, over his tumbler. 

“No fair,” the boy pouted.

In the chair beside him, Franklin chucked. “Aw, don’t sweat it, short stuff. Here-” He plucked up his own napkin, shook it out of its triangular fold, and tucked it into his own collar. “Why make more work for the girls, huh?”

The almost-six-year-old nodded, smile returning.

“ _Very_ considerate,” Ms. Danver said, making the boy smile even wider.

One of the maids laid a basket of sliced bread on the table, and-

-as Amelia watched (and Casper’s attention was on his family)-

-her face flickered, just briefly.

Like TV static.

That was _twice_ now.

And then again; one or two of the plates of food on the table flickered, pixels jolting from their frames, Franklin’s sleeve shocking off center before righting itself to where it had been. 

She flexed the fingers in her lap. It was instinct, after two years in the space (even as, back where her husband and daughter were, only hours had passed). She was itching to test it, to see exactly what was happening to her control over the space, but it was too risky, would raise too many questions she might not be able to answer.

“Amelia!” Casper said, grabbing her sleeve, “look! I got to try wine! I’m not even allowed to do that _now!”_

She nodded mutely, watching the boy return to his joyful observations. She went back to scanning the room, watching for anything off. Anything strange. 

The family was beginning to dig into their meals. Samuel was admitting that he never understood why there needed to be so many different utensils, Franklin in turn giving each at his place a different voice, making them argue over which was _most_ superfluous while Casper giggled wildly. Outside, the snow was still ever-pelting the windows. The air smelled like nutmeg and cinnamon. Everything in the memory was right. 

Just looking wasn’t going to cut it.

Palms on the table, she dragged in a breath, and the house responded. 

There were colors, first. Just behind her eyes. Dark ones, moving to spots of lights and pastels. She focused past it. Beyond it; emotions. Blooming at the base of her throat and in her chest. A tentative happiness. Hot joy.

Beyond that, just beneath, a whole, encompassing sorrow. 

It was easy to get lost in that feeling, the wispy tendrils smoothing across her spine and growing like vines up her ribs. 

She shifted, dragging in another breath and leaned in deeper. 

And then, finally, beyond all the colors and words and feelings— 

**_hello, visitors_ **

— the house responded. 

She rolled her shoulders back, spine straightening. _Something is happening._ Her voice sounded different in her head, passing through the channel linking them. Like shouting through fog. She kept her eyes fixed on a single spot of the table, worried if she closed them, Casper would notice. _I’m not sure what. But something_ is _happening here._

**_Something is always happening._ **

She focused harder. _The memories are broken._

 **_Of course they aren’t._ ** _The house rattled patiently._ **_They are memories. They fade. They keep. They stay. But they do not break._ **

_Well, they’re breaking._

The house was silent a moment, as if checking to see if her assessment was correct. She waited with less patience than it had, glaring hard down at the spot on the table, still. 

**_There is no breaking,_ ** it said, finally. **_The memories are as they have always been and as they always will be._ **

_You’re wrong._

**_I am not. I am simply myself._ **

_We don’t have time for this._

The house’s walls creaked, sighing. **_Time is something I’ll never understand. There is never enough, and yet, too much. You’ve spent hours pushing and pulling through. Time was not something you had a problem with before-_ **

_We’re still on a schedule._

**_And yet, my memories continue on._ **

_But they aren’t,_ she argued, her mouth tightening to keep herself from saying anything out loud. Her fingers drummed against the table. _They aren’t working. They’re… glitching._

**_They aren’t._ **

_They are!_

**_They aren’t. They are the same as they always are and always will be._ **

_Then why are they glitching!_

**_They aren’t,_ ** the house said, simply. **_They are adjusting._ **

Her fingers stopped drumming. _Adjusting? Why adjusting?_

**_It is as I say. They are adjusting._ **

_Why?_

**_They are making room._ **

_For what? More memories?_

**_More bodies._ **

Her hand gripped the side of the table. _What does that mean, more bodies?_

**_It is as I said._ **

Her hands, against the side of the table, were trembling. _That’s impossible._

**_And yet._ **

Her breath froze. The house waited calmly, silently. 

At the table, Casper’s eyes were still fixed on the scene. The memory of his living self was negotiating with Franklin, trying to barter as-of-yet-unserved dessert for the larger turkey leg on the grown-man’s plate. Samuel offered to trade his portion, but the boy declared that ‘meat’s s’posed ta be eaten with your hands!’ Which made both of them burst out laughing. At the head of the table, Stephen rolled his eyes and took a sip of his wine. 

She tried to catch onto a breath, swallowing past the tightness in her throat. Her heart thrummed. _You haven’t let in visitors,_ she insisted, ignoring the chill up her spine. _You haven’t, because it’s_ impossible _. The only ones who you should make room for are us. We belong here._

 **_You are visitors,_ ** said the house, definitively. **_You do not belong. You were given permission. Do not forget that._ **

_Which I am grateful for,_ she hissed. _It was necessary to be here. To help Casper before he made a decision on his own. But we already set the rules of this place. And part of the rules is that no more visitors-_

The windows gave a shudder. Casper jerked in his seat, turning around in surprise, but eventually turned back to the scene. 

The colors in Amelia’s head were twisting like vipers. **_My rules are my own,_ ** it said back, flashing another vibrant, dangerous color behind her eyes. **_You were given permission, and it was granted. You are a visitor here. A foreign object._ **

_Are you saying someone broke through?_ She gripped the table harder, oak biting into her palm. _I specifically made sure that no one could. It’s taken enough of my powers just to control everything here! And if there was another person- we’d lose time! He’d lose his chance to-_

There was another flash of color, plunging against her mind like a wave to the bluffs. She winced. **_You suggest that I have allowed others to breach my walls?_ **

_You told me-_

**_I am made up of memories._ ** The house sent a flash of light to the space behind her eyes, and she shut them quickly, her temples stinging. **_I am made up of everything and nothing. I am made of joys and sorrows and forevers. I was here before and I will stand long after you._ **

She swallowed, not daring to respond. 

**_You were allowed in, and I have bent memories to fit your narratives. I have given you powers to control each moment. To replay and bend and shape. I have given you time, and space. I have allowed you to see joy, and I will permit you to see sorrow._ ** There was another biting flash of light at her temple. **_You are presumptuous in your belief that you have any power here beyond what I allow you, Amelia. I know who belongs. And I know who does not._ **

Her hand was beginning to ache. She swallowed, her mouth too dry. 

**_You agreed to rules long since set in this place. And they are ones I am always prepared to follow, for the sake of the memories that belong within I know who arrives and I know who leaves. To suggest that I might be so fragile that an intruder would make its way into my walls-_ **

_Of course not,_ she said, as quickly as she could, her voice dropping, soothing the house’s colors down. _You could never let an intruder in._

The vibrant shades began to settle. 

_But,_ she began again _cautiously_ , trying to tame her still pounding heart, _if you say that the memories are adjusting, if there are more bodies… is there a chance that anyone, any visitor, could have found their way here?_

The house was silent. The colors were shifting. Thinking. 

**_No more visitors,_** the house said, finally. **_There are no other visitors in these walls._**

Amelia’s stomach tightened. 

She wanted to ask more, as dangerous as it might have been, but Casper grabbed her arm before she could. The colors were pulled away, and she felt the connection snap like twine, leaving her full of nothing but questions. 

_More bodies - no visitors_

“Can you believe it! Look at that cake, Amelia! I think we have that recipe at home! I made it before for-” He stopped, staring up at her. “Amelia?”

She stared at the table.

“Amelia?”

Amelia drew in a breath, twisting in her seat. “What was that, dear?”

He blinked. “Are you… okay?”

“Absolutely.”

_More bodies - no visitors_

“Are you sure?” He drew his hand away from her sleeve. “We can take a break, if you want?” 

Her shoulders softened. She reached out and touched Casper’s face. “You really are very kind, you know that?”

His cheeks, under her fingers, turned pink. 

She pulled away before shifting her chair closer to the table. “Why don’t we finish this memory together, hm? Anything good happen?”

“Lots! My Uncle Fat-Franklin- he’s about to hang a spoon off his nose.”

“Always the proper gentleman, wasn’t he?” 

The memory continued on in front of them. Amelia watched it play out, doing her best to laugh at the right moments. 

But her stomach rolled again, and she swallowed back another wave of anxiety. Around her, the house creaked again. 

_More bodies - no visitors_

Amelia’s jaw ticked, and as she watched the memory continue, her mind continued to pick through the words. 

_More bodies - no visitors_

_More bodies - no visitors_

_More bodies_

_No visitors_

* * *

As he wandered the halls, Stretch didn’t feel safe. It was as if the house knew he was there. As if it was trying to drag him further into its depths, glad to have one of its residents back. Laughter and footsteps were everywhere. From different rooms he could hear murmurs of conversations, his own voice reflecting back to him. The sounds of Casper, of his brothers, of the train whistles all the way in town. 

“It’s a goddamned haunted house.”

_Scarier than anything we could cook up._

Stretch was inclined to agree. 

_Take a left up here._ Stephen, in his element, was beginning to remember how the world worked. Memories weren’t coming back, but he seemed to know when and where they’d arrive. _There’s a dinner going on downstairs. Your brothers are gonna come up to get changed soon. We gotta get away from their rooms._

“Their-”

_Franklin’s room is down that hall._

Stretch peeked down a corner at a fork. He recognized the doors. They’d used some of the rooms down that way for storage. At home, they were the rooms that he rarely asked Casper to clean. 

_More like you demanded._

Stretch felt his fists clench. “Shut up.” 

The rooms he rarely _demanded_ Casper to clean. 

There was no reason. They were mostly filled with sheets and old beds. A few boxes of junk that they didn’t want to look at. Things that ghosts had no use for. He’d barely looked into them since he’d become a ghost. 

And yet they were… familiar. 

_We don’t have time ta’ remember all’a this. We gotta get a move on. Dinner’ll be wrappin’ up soon. You don’t wanna be caught up in the crosshairs._

“I’m moving.”

_Now._

He scoffed, shaking his head, and kept moving in the opposite direction.

Until-

**_Uncle Stephen! Uncle Stephen, look what I drew!_ **

An echo of a memory, stronger than the others, flew past him. It was more real than the others, and it startled him enough to jump out of the way. He tried to vanish into a room, wanting to hide, completely forgetting about his new form. And so it was almost a second surprise when his back hit the wall instead of phasing through. 

There was a clatter as something hit his back, glass cracking under his very real weight. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”

_Careful! Ya’ tryin’ ta tear your fuckin’ memory house down!_

“S’not my fault! The memory-”

_I told ya’! Ya’ gotta ignore them-_

“A little hard ta do when they’re tryin’ ta run me down.” He reached up to touch his back. It stung something awful. He was despising this body thing more and more. “Still don’t know why ya’ kept us feelin’ our age.”

_Wasn’t me! S’your world, asshole. Apparently decided ta’ keep that in our repertoire. Wait until the neck pain kicks in. That’s killer._

“Can’t wait.” He bent back a little, stretching out his spine. He turned around, looking to see what he hit. 

A frame. 

“Huh…”

On second glance, the entire hallway was lined with them. Between each door, little frames hung by nails, holding small sepia pictures. He frowned, reaching up to touch the gold filigree around the picture and the nail that held it. 

_Stretch?_

“These aren’t… They’re not at home.”

_Course they aren’t. The way you keep the place, it’s a wonder anythin’ stays up without Casper doin’ all the housework for ya._

“No, I mean they ain’t at home. At all.” He blinked, finally taking a look at the picture behind the now cracked glass. It was a little hard to see now. One of the fractures was over the man’s face. When he moved closer (ignoring Stephen’s constant reminders of _we’ve got places to be_ ) he finally was able to parse out the face under the spiderweb cracks. 

“That’s… me.”

_Course it is, dumbass. Who else would be in the pictures._

“Pictures?”

Implication: multiple. 

He stepped back, quickly walking down to the next frame. The glass wasn’t cracked, and he was able to see what lay behind glass right away. He stood in front of the docks. Casper was beside him, holding his hand. The child was smiling. He had a bag of toffee in his fist. 

“That’s the two of us.” He touched the frame. Something behind his chest fluttered. “That’s me. An’-”

_An’ Cas’. Yes. But we gotta-_

“Wait. Hold on.” 

_Stretch!_

He went to the next. And the one after that. 

His breath was moving too fast, head spinning. 

“This ain’t possible.”

One picture of them at a baseball game. 

Another; the two of them sitting on a park bench. 

A third, taken from above, the pair of them on the library floor, with a half-finished puzzle laid out between them.

Another flutter under his chest was moving towards his throat. 

“This ain’t possible.”

_Of course it is! We were the only ones here for Cas’. All’a the pictures in this house are of the two of us. An’ we were regular picture junkies. Took’m whenever we could._

Stretch swallowed, moving to the next one. 

Him holding the child on his lap. Casper was asleep, head pressed into a suited shoulder. 

He touched the glass. Against his own shoulder, a weight formed. He touched the spot. The smell of warm soap and grass pooled softly around him. 

Stretch stepped back, looking up and down the hall at the frames hanging. 

“This ain’t possible,” he said again. “It just _ain’t.”_

_I already told ya-_

“No. It ain’t that.” His head spun. “We opened the box in the library. Before you showed up. The one Kat found in the attic. Remember?”

_Course. Hard ta’ pay attention though, with you denyin’ through a fog horn._

Stretch shook his head, looking back up to the picture. Casper was asleep. His face was soft. Stretch’s own was relaxed, and dipped gently in the fair curls. 

“This wasn’t in there.”

_What?_

“ _None of these_ ,” he said. “None of ‘em were in the box. It was just Stinkie an’ Fatso. But none of _these._ ”

_We left before you could look through everythin’. Might’ve just been at the bottom. Wouldn’t be surprised-_

“No. _None of these_ were in there.”

He could feel Stephen twist up in his head. _You sure?_

“Yeah.”

Stephen drew in a stiff breath. _I ain’t no detective. Not like that girl back there. But if I had ta’ bet my money on anythin’... there’s a reason our stuff’s missin’ back on your side. Reason someone might not want us ta’ find it._

“You think someone… took it?” 

_I think someone had their reason ta’ try an’ erase us. An’ I think ya’ might know who._

Stretch had an idea. 

“J.T.”

 _It makes sense. He wanted ta’ erase you in life. Would’a made sense. Explain all the dark spots you an’ your brothers are feelin’. All the empty spaces. Which is_ why _we gotta figure out what he hid. Fill in the spots that he wanted ta’ darken._

“And now the son of a bitch gets his own fuckin’ box back home,” He stepped back from the picture, jaw twitching. The weight stayed on his shoulder, and he reached up to try and brush it away. It stayed. The scent of soap and grass clung, too. Like paint on the walls. 

_I still don’t get that._

“What?”

_Why’s he get his own box? The hell could anyone have possibly put in it? He left when the kid was still three, and hasn't been back yet._

“Who packed the damn things up anyway?”

_Your guess is as good as mine._

He sniffed, tilting his chin. “Doesn’t matter. Bastard won’t win. Not here. Not gonna let him.”

_That’s the spirit. Now c’mon. We gotta move. Dinner’s almost over._

He looked at the picture again, chest fluttering. Shaking off the feeling as best he could, the man continued his walk down the hall, doing his best to keep from looking at the pictures as he did. 

(He couldn’t help but peek anyway)

(Every one of them came with another flutter under his skin)

* * *

Kat held the photo out, breathless in the silence.

Fatso, from across the room, twisted towards them, brow lowering. 

Harvey’s eyes sharpened. 

Stinkie dipped closer to the picture. He reached for it again, and Kat let him take it from her. 

He stared down at the picture.

“Stinkie?” Harvey had finally caught on and was moving closer. 

Stinkie wasn’t paying attention to the therapist, turning back down to the girl on the carpet. “You found this? In there?”

She nodded. 

“Stinkie?” Harvey again, back beside the ghost. Behind them, Fatso was moving closer. “What’s going on?”

“S’a mistake.” His eyes were flickering at the pictures, splayed out on the carpet. “Just a picture endin’ up in the wrong place.”

“In the wrong…” Harvey reached down, taking the picture from Stinkie. He tilted it just so, the light from the orbs casting a soft glow across the image. Kat watched him blink.

The height - it would be the first thing he noticed. 

It was the first thing she’d noticed too. Impossible to miss.

Then the nose. 

The sharp angles of elbows and chin and shoulders. 

“Kat…”

“They’re all like this.” Kat’s voice cracked. Her eyes were welling. 

_Please no_ , was all she could think, over and over. _Please no, please no, please no-_

“ _All of them?”_ Her father’s gaze was cutting. She wanted to sink through the floor. 

_Please no, please no, please no._

Denial was surging around her. She didn’t want to believe.

A mistake. 

A sick joke. 

A rushed job gone horribly wrong. 

She looked down, and the pictures watched her back. 

Fatso floated closer, just beside his brother. The room was completely still, the house holding its breath. 

“They’re all like this,” Kat said again into the quiet and the holding. “They’re all…”

“They can’t be.”

She wanted to agree. 

They couldn’t be. 

_They could be_. 

And yet… 

Her hands shook. She reached down, taking out a picture and laying it out. 

“Kat?” 

She ignored Fatso’s voice, picking up another picture, laying it down like the first. 

Again and again. 

Another and another. 

Placing each picture down until the space in front of her was slowly filled out with the sharp eyes, the sharp elbows, the sharp shoulders, the sharp nose. 

Until the contents of the spilled out box fit themselves together. 

Until the puzzle they’d been painstakingly struggling with began to take shape.

Until Kat sat in the middle of sepia sunrays, branching out around her in the darkness of the room, and the adults and the walls of the house were all watching with bated breath. 

“Light,” she choked out. “I need- I need _light-”_

Harvey, eyes fixed on the floor, swallowed. “I can… go find a flashlight-”

“Don’t think we need one, Doc.” Fatso floated off to the side, and when he was back, he was holding an orb in each hand. He passed the smaller one to Stinkie, whose fingers curled around the cool mist, extending his arm just above the spot where Kat was kneeling.

The area became illuminated. 

Beside Kat, was a pile of papers, of small memorabilia, and a thick stack of pictures, more than had been in the box they’d already opened. The ones that she’d taken were spread out in all directions around her, as far as she’d been able to reach, leaving her in the center of the circles of pictures she’d laid out like a puzzle. 

The words of the box watched the group crowd around the collection that the girl laid out. Black letters teasingly watching from below; _CASPER’S FATHER_

The two orbs glowed in the ghost’s hand, side by side, the mists curling into one another. 

In the picture he held, it was much the same. A small hand clutching a larger one. 

In the light, Kat watched the eyes of the adults flicker and widen as the picture came together. 

“I told you,” she croaked. “J.T. - there’s none of him in this box.”

Fatso tried to find the words. “This ain’t…” he said, fumbling. “This can’t be- I mean… Stinkie… are you-”

“I see it,” his brother rasped. 

Her father, standing between them, could only look down. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Kat,” he finally said. “ _Kat.”_

“I know.” 

“Kat…”

She picked up one of the pictures, holding it carefully, looking at the joined sepia hands, shining beneath photo laminate. “I know.” 

The house around them settled beneath the patter of the storm. Its walls had watched many a person walk through, silently memorizing the stories and histories that wandered through its halls. 

It had watched them turn to ghosts. Watched them hate and despise and demand.

Watched a Girl and her Father arrive. 

Watched the Girl seek out truth, over and over and over again. 

And now it continued to watch as a story, distorted for so long by the humans within, finally began to set itself straight. 

“Dad…” 

The Girl, the Seeker of Truths, had found that which she sought.

Climbed the hill.

Denied.

Blamed.

Hoped.

And now she stood on the edge, too far to turn back, staring into the abyss.

The Truth.

The Truth of a boy-

“Kat… this is-” the Father said again.

“I know,” was all the Girl could say, as she held up a picture. 

The faces flickered under the light. 

“All of them…” she whispered. “Every single one. They’re all of Casper and-”

The middle ghost nodded, voice numb. “Yea. Casper.” He reached down and took the picture from her hand. “And Stretch.”

-and his Father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Humanity and I have started a discord server for chatting about this story and Casper stuff in general! If you'd like to join in and chat with us, hit us up on tumblr for an invitation! We're @samanthafrank and @humanityinahandbag over there!

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic would not have been possible without my good friend and incredible writer Invader_Sam, who reached out to me as I began writing this. She is a phenomenal writer, and I have had the absolutely best time. I am so honored to be working with her.


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